


I'll paint you wings, and I'll set you free.

by KittieHill, sherlockholmesconsultingvampire



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Arguing, Big Brother Mycroft, Blow Jobs, Case Fic, Confidence, Declarations Of Love, Drawing, Drug Use, Drunk John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hes cute really, Hurt/Comfort, Inexperienced Sherlock, John is a Very Good Doctor, Kidnapping, Lisps, M/M, Madness, Making Up, Masturbation, Nightmares, Non-Con wedding planning, Non-con cuddles of Mycroft, Poor John, Poor Sherlock, Pretend Drunkenness, Protective Mycroft, Reunions, Rimming, SMUT!, Sad Sherlock, Sass, Scars, Sebastian Moran Being an Asshole, Sensitive Sherlock, Shared Bathing, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock attempts to look after John, Soothing John, Supportive Donovan, Supportive John, Tenderness, This is a soppy one, Trouble is brewing, True Love, Uh ho, Upset Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Vulnerable Sherlock, art class, awkward erections, smut to follow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-11 19:39:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 29,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5639527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockholmesconsultingvampire/pseuds/sherlockholmesconsultingvampire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He hadn’t known. How could he? There had only been two of them on the roof that day, and he hadn’t been aware of the wire that had been feeding back his words to the sniper that sat on the roof opposite with his aim centred on John. A flash of pain washed over him as the knife cut through skin, deep enough to leave a nasty scar in its path and Sherlock hissed through his teeth and tried to keep silent. The man towering over his suspended form was tall, strong and ruthless with the blade that was decorating Sherlock’s back with what he had called his ‘masterpiece in the making’, and Sherlock could only bite down on the dirty piece of cloth that had been tied around his head in a makeshift gag. The blade swiped down what felt like the entire length of his back in one agonisingly slow move, and Sherlock couldn’t stop the tears that sprang to his eyes and dripped to merge with the blood on the floor below him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock returned from his time away with scars. He wants to hide them from John but could their discovery be the spark which ignites their relationship?
> 
> (I'm so sorry, that's such a shit summary!)
> 
> Myself and SherlockHolmesConsultingVampire have never written together. We decided to try and this is what happened!

Sherlock turned the shower on high, watching as the droplets battered the bottom of the ceramic tub before he stripped himself of his socks, trousers and pants. He lingered with his fingers on the buttons of his shirt, steeling himself nervously before chastising himself for being a fool. Unbuttoning each pearl fastener he let the fabric fall to the bathroom floor and stepped into the tub, carefully pulling the curtain around him to hide his body from any intruders who may enter. Not that that was likely, the only people home were Mrs H and John. Mrs Hudson wouldn’t have wandered into the bathroom without knocking or calling out first and John was insistent on his imposed rules regarding privacy whilst in the bathroom. Sherlock had originally thought that the man was idiotic, they were both men of science, realising that bodily functions were natural if a little disgusting and degrading but now he felt different. The water burned as it hit the freshly healed skin on his back and caused a sensation of pins and needles down his spine which filled Sherlock with anxious horror as the memories flooded back.

_He hadn’t known. How could he? There had only been two of them on the roof that day, and he hadn’t been aware of the wire that had been feeding back his words to the sniper that sat on the roof opposite with his aim centred on John. A flash of pain washed over him as the knife cut through skin, deep enough to leave a nasty scar in its path and Sherlock hissed through his teeth and tried to keep silent. The man towering over his suspended form was tall, strong and ruthless with the blade that was decorating Sherlock’s back with what he had called his ‘masterpiece in the making’, and Sherlock could only bite down on the dirty piece of cloth that had been tied around his head in a makeshift gag. The blade swiped down what felt like the entire length of his back in one agonisingly slow move, and Sherlock couldn’t stop the tears that sprang to his eyes and dripped to merge with the blood on the floor below him._

Sherlock rested his hands against the shower wall and inhaled deeply. He clamped his eyes tightly closed and attempted to suppress the whimper of sorrow which threatened to escape his pinched lips. The water which collected around his feet seemed blood red, crimson and sticking to his skin in a way which caused Sherlock’s heart to pound rapidly.

“It’s just a memory,” Sherlock whispered to himself. “Just a memory. I’m safe. I’m at Baker Street. John is here. It’s okay.”

Taking a breath, he carefully stepped from the bath onto the fluffy bathmat ( _Where did that come from? Did John buy it? Sherlock couldn't remember ever owning one_ ) and grasped for his large towel, wrapping it around his waist; he tied a second around his shoulders in a makeshift cape before walking through the adjoining door to the safety and security of his bedroom. He knew his bedroom was secure as Mycroft had personally overseen the work done by the secret service. Shatterproof glass replaced his bedroom windows and a small panic room had been placed inside Sherlock’s wardrobe in case one of Moriarty’s men came to find him.

Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, his breath leaving him in a sigh and his head momentarily falling into his hands as he waited for his breathing to return to normal. He took a few deep, controlled breaths and cleared his throat, looking behind him to make sure he was alone before removing the towel from his shoulders and quickly using it to dry his hair roughly. He moved the towel lower to dry his shoulders before carefully wiping over the damaged flesh on his back, and throwing the towel on the floor next to his dresser with a groan as the movement pulled at the healing marks. He pulled the other towel from around his waist and quickly dried the rest of his body before walking to the dresser for a fresh pair of pajamas and pulling out his favourite grey set.

He stepped into the bottoms and pulled them up over his slender hips, scowling at the way they hung loosely and almost fell back down. They’d fit him perfectly a couple of years ago, but with how much weight he’d lost during his time away, most of his clothes had to be replaced with new ones, ( _not that he’d told John that; thankfully Mycroft had helped out with that one after his return_ ). He lifted the t-shirt and pulled it over his head, getting his arms stuck in the holes just as he heard the telltale creak of his bedroom door swinging open, and he could feel his heart beating in his throat as he struggled to lower the shirt. The bottoms started to slide down with his movements, and Sherlock panicked as he heard John clear his throat awkwardly. He finally managed to cover himself, and he schooled his expression into one of indifference when he finally turned to look at John in the doorway.

“I just...wondered why there were teabags and potato peelings in my shoes?” John asked, his cheeks slightly flushed from the view of Sherlock’s arse. He had intended to pop his head in, knowing that Sherlock didn’t usually hang around naked after his showers but it had been his lucky ( _and slightly pervy_ ) day as he got an eyeful of his flatmate’s perfectly pert and round behind. John’s eyes had flicked up a little higher to the small of Sherlock’s back and caught the first glimpse of reddened trails which looked like scars, but Sherlock had pulled down his clothing, denying John his opportunity to see more of Sherlock’s white, beautiful skin.

“It’s an experiment,” Sherlock mumbled, his eyes narrowed as he looked over at John and wondered whether the doctor had noticed the scars. It was probable that he would have made much more of a fuss if he had glimpsed the awful and violent raised skin which meant that John was still completely oblivious ( _his usual state_ ).

“I see. Please don’t put any more compost in my shoes. These are my good ones,” John grumbled, tilting his head to look at Sherlock carefully. “Everything alright?”

“Perfectly fine, except my flatmate has no sense of boundaries and walks into a man’s bedroom unannounced,” Sherlock sneered. “Especially considering said flatmate made a huge fuss regarding personal space.”

“Right,” John nodded. “That’s fair. Anyway, just wanted to let you know I’m going out with Lestrade tonight. Don’t wait up.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Sherlock mumbled, turning his back on John and climbing into bed with his newest medical journal. “Lock the door after you.”


	2. Chapter 2

The walk to the pub seemed longer somehow with the cold, and John tucked his hands into his pockets and sighed as he turned the final corner and pushed open the door. Lestrade was already inside, nursing a pint of Carling and a bag of peanuts, and chatting to the bartender about the football match that played on the large screen. He turned and smiled as John settled on one of the uncomfortable bar stools beside him, and nodded to the bartender for another pint for John and him. 

“Cheers mate. Been needing this all day.” John picked up the glass reverently and closed his eyes as he took his first gulp. 

“You alright? Sherlock being his usual delightful self again?” Lestrade said with a fond smile, chugging the last of his drink before picking up the new one.

John laughed and shook his head. He sometimes forgot that Lestrade had known Sherlock longer than he had, and every time the thought resurfaced he had to fight down a small wave of jealousy that tried to escape. 

“No actually, that’s sort of the problem. Since he got back he’s been acting… I don’t know, just different, I guess. I feel like... ” John trailed off, feeling stupid for saying such things to Greg, but the DI knew better than anyone how hard it was to be friends with Sherlock. He’d seen what John had been through in Sherlock’s absence, and how hard it had been on the doctor. 

“Come on, out with it,” Greg coaxed gently. 

“Like he’s hiding something from me.” John whispered, shaking his head and taking another gulp of his pint. “I used to be able to read him. I could tell what he was thinking and when he was struggling but since he’s come back it’s as though… Oh bloody hell I don’t know.” 

Greg frowned and placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “He’ll be alright. He’s Sherlock… He’s probably just trying to figure out who killed JFK or who Jack the Ripper is. You know what he’s like.”

“Yeah.” John smiled in a way that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah maybe.”

Lestrade looked up at the screen for a moment before flicking his eyes back down. “It’s not a danger night is it?”

“Don’t think so,” John replied. “He’s not acting in a way which would suggest it was… but he’s just acting different. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. I’m not his bloody wife.”

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that mate,” Greg laughed before signalling to the barman for two more pints.

 

* * *

John whistled as he walked home. He wasn’t entirely sure what the song was but he was pretty sure it was something that Sherlock played on the violin… or Duran Duran. One of the two. He grumbled to himself as the key rebelled in the door and refused to twist and unlock; on the fourth attempt John was finally granted entrance and gave a slight cheer to himself as he closed the door behind him and climbed up the stairs to his flat. He shushed the noisy floorboards (especially the seventh one which creaked under his weight) and giggled to himself for being a drunken fool as he stumbled into the living room and sat on the arm of the sofa. The doctor began to unlace his shoes but rapidly gave up when they tangled, he instead kicked them across the room and pulled off his coat, leaving it spread across the back of the sofa as he rubbed his face and cursed Lestrade for starting the rounds of shots. He was a doctor, he should know better.

A soft sniffle caught his attention and immediately caused him to sober up almost completely as his Captain persona came back to the forefront. He silenced himself, listening to the noises of the old building interspersed with the noise which seemed to be coming from Sherlock’s bedroom. John sneaked closer, his body crouched slightly in alarm and his senses on full alert as he reached Sherlock’s bedroom door and listened…

There was a gasp, a groan and then nothing for a while which made John’s mouth go dry. Perhaps Sherlock was masturbating? Maybe that’s what the noise was. John had never known Sherlock to do that but he was a man like any other biological man… he probably had the same desires and needs as others. John felt his cock twitch to life and immediately exhaled, feeling ridiculous that he had overreacted when Sherlock shouted something which John didn’t recognise.

“Moran!” 

John stilled with his hand on the doorknob, tensing when he heard a whimper and another shout of the unfamiliar name fall from Sherlock’s lips. He twisted the doorknob slowly and pushed the door open, frowning when he saw the mess of the covers with Sherlock tangled amidst them. He walked over to the bed and reached a hand out to try and wake the man who was obviously having a nightmare; John recognised the signs: the pained look on Sherlock’s face, the sweat that had started to soak the sheets and his t-shirt, and the constant flicker of his eyelids as he tried to wake himself up from the dream. John had suffered the same thing when he’d returned to London after the war, and it was only when he’d met Sherlock that the night terrors had ceased. He’d still have the odd one now and again, but nowhere near as frequent as before. He made a mental note to thank Sherlock for that one day.

Sherlock twisted in his sleep as he felt a hand on his shoulder, and jerked away when the grip tightened. John swore under his breath and took a step back, waiting for the man as he settled again and turned over, causing the grey shirt to ride up slightly. John’s eyes immediately fell to the pale skin that was exposed, and his eyes narrowed in confusion as he spotted something on Sherlock’s skin. It was what he’d seen earlier in the day when he’d walked into Sherlock’s bedroom and the brunet was getting dressed, but he hadn’t been able to see much then with the distance between them. Now though, with Sherlock asleep and their close proximity, John could see a dark line on Sherlock’s lower back that almost looked like a tattoo. He sighed at the darkness of the room and took his phone from his pocket, lighting up the screen gently and holding it over the mark, swearing louder this time as he dropped the mobile on top on Sherlock’s no longer sleeping form.

Sherlock blinked, his eyes still blurred and slightly glazed from sleep as he stared at John. “Have you come to hurt me too?” he asked, his voice impassive and neutral.

“What? No… Sherlock...” John replied aghast. “Sherlock, you’re at home. You were dreaming.”

“Hurry up and get on with it,” Sherlock sneered but his voice was tense and frightened. “You won’t make me talk.”

John’s heart was pounding, his mouth dry as he attempted to stroke a hand through Sherlock’s sweat-matted curls. “Please wake up, Sherlock… it’s John. Please wake up, please?”

Totally ignoring the marks on Sherlock’s back, John focussed on waking Sherlock from this horrific nightmare which he hoped was a figment of Sherlock’s overworked brain but deep down, he knew it wasn’t. He was startled when Sherlock awoke with a thrash of limbs and a piercing wail as he shuffled up the bed and pulled the covers to his chest, looking at John in confusion. “John?”

“You were shouting,” John whispered, attempting to hide the feelings of horror from his face. “I was just passing.”

“What did I say?” Sherlock asked, slightly anxious and shaken.

“I didn’t understand most of it,” John lied. “It seemed like gibberish.”

“I see.” Sherlock nodded and took a deep breath, turning away from John and pulling the cover up to his neck. “I apologise if I interrupted your slumber.”

“Don’t do this,” John whispered. “Don’t shut me out… tell me how I can help you.”

A terrible half laugh-half cry escaped Sherlock’s lips as he shook his head sadly. “You can’t, John. You can’t.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [TW for a hint of vomiting but also discussion of Sherlock's torture]
> 
> So happy that people are enjoying the story so far. There will be smut! Stay tuned.

Sherlock awoke to the smell of toast, and the clink of teacups. He sat up in his bed, wincing at the state of the covers and the smell of his pajamas, and sighed as he stood and resigned himself to another shower. He stepped under the spray and washed the night’s sweat away quickly and thoroughly, before stepping out and drying himself in the bathroom, wrapping his dressing gown around himself tightly as he made his way to his bedroom door and locked it. He watched the way his hands shook as he opened his dresser to pull out clean clothes for the day, and pulled them on with force, already angry with himself at his lack of control over his emotions. He took a deep breath to compose himself, and unlocked the door, walking through to the kitchen and avoiding John’s gaze as the older man smiled gently at him.

John frowned at Sherlock’s back and sighed. “Morning, Sherlock. Want some breakfast?”

“Cigarette and a coffee,” Sherlock grumbled, his back still turned towards John sitting at the breakfast table.

“Not exactly healthy,” John laughed, rolling his eyes. “I can make you bacon or something? We still have some of that nice jam in the cupboard that you like…”

“Will you stop fussing?!” Sherlock exploded, slamming his hands against the countertop. “You are not my wife, nor are you my mother so please stop attempting to coax me into eating like I am an imbecile.”

“That wasn’t my intention,” John replied in his best ‘Sherlock’s-having-a-tantrum voice’.

“Yet somehow it’s always the outcome,” Sherlock sneered. “Don’t you have patients to fret over? I am not your responsibility so kindly leave me alone.”

“Sherlock!” John shouted, standing up to his full height and staring at Sherlock’s neck so harshly that it should have burned the man. “I’m worried about you! I was worried before I came home and heard you crying out in your sleep… I… God, Sherlock, what happened to you?”

“Nothing happened to me! I have told you! I’m perfectly fine,” Sherlock shouted back, betraying his words in the most contradicting way possible.

“No you’re not!” John hit the table top. “Stop fucking lying to me! You’re not fine, you haven’t been fine since you returned. You’re secretive and nervous, you hide away from me and I hardly see you anymore.”

“Perhaps it’s you?” Sherlock countered. “Maybe you’ve changed and now you can’t remember that this is how it was before.”

“No.” John shook his head. “No, it wasn’t like this. I wasn’t living with a stranger.”

Sherlock slumped his shoulders and let his head fall forward. “I’m still me.”

John rushed to Sherlock’s side, pressing a hand against Sherlock’s arm. “I know you are, I can see the old Sherlock in there somewhere but he’s buried under all of this,” he gestured randomly. “And I don’t know how I can help.”

“I’ll try to be better,” Sherlock whispered. “If I try… Will you stay?”

“Stay where?” John frowned.

“Here. With me. Don’t leave…” Sherlock flushed, his eyes darting everywhere but John’s gaze. “I… I feel safe with you here.”

“I’m not leaving. Ever,” John promised, sliding his hand up to caress Sherlock’s shoulder in a slightly more intimate touch than would normally be considered between two flatmates. “I’ve made it this far.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock agreed, heaping sugar into the cup which was to hold his morning coffee.

“Can I ask one question though?” John coaxed nervously.

“I’m sure you can,” Sherlock replied.

“Git,” the older man laughed. “Who’s Moran?”

Sherlock dropped the spoon against his mug causing a loud clink in the kitchen as he whipped his head around to stare at John. “How do you know that name?” he asked in a panic.

“You were shouting it in your sleep,” John frowned. “You’ve gone deathly pale, do you need to sit down?”

“No… No I’m…” Sherlock almost started the word fine before he was bending over the sink and vomiting hard into the plughole. He spat the foul tasting bile into the sink with a groan and ran the water. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah… Course you are,” John sighed, rubbing his face as Sherlock walked away from the kitchen and slammed the bedroom door. “Fucking hell.”

* * *

Half an hour and two slices of toast later, Sherlock still hadn’t come out of his bedroom. John had cleaned up the disgusting mess in the kitchen sink, somehow managed to not throw up his own breakfast afterwards, and got ready for work without so much as a sound from the other man. He sighed resignedly and made his way to Sherlock’s bedroom door, and knocked lightly on the wood.

“Sherlock? I have to go to work now, but I don’t want to leave if you’re ill. Are you okay?” He waited for an answer, but hearing nothing from the detective, closed his eyes and breathed to calm himself. “Look, if you’re not talking to me for whatever reason, fine. But at least text me if you need anything. Yeah?”

John held his breath for a second, but Sherlock was silent still. Maybe he’d gone to sleep, or was in his mind palace. Either way, John had to get to work, so with a heavy heart, he turned and walked away from the door and grabbed his coat, made his way down the stairs, and set off for the clinic.

* * *

John turned the corner and popped into the shop to buy a pack of mints and a bottle of water for the tube, holding a brief conversation with the sweet lady working there before leaving and heading off towards the Baker Street tube. He reached the main road and sighed in aggravation when a large black saloon car came to a stop in front of him and a door was opened, showing a pair of stockinged legs finished with a pair of expensive looking high heels.

“I hope that’s not Mycroft,” John said as he walked around the door and stuck his head in. “Suppose this is my weekly kidnapping then?”

“Please get in the car, Doctor Watson,” Anthea said with a fake smile, pulling her leg back into the car and closing the door in John’s face and forcing him to walk to the other side.

“Why doesn’t he just phone me?” John grumbled. “He has control of every bloody phone in the country but he still kidnaps me. Should I be happy? Am I special?”

Anthea stayed silent, tapping away at her Blackberry as the car pulled off into the London traffic.

Their journey was short; the driver pulled into an abandoned school carpark and opened the door to let Anthea out, offering his arm for her which she declined. John climbed out and stretched his back as he looked around. “So, where am I meeting him today?”

“Main hall,” Anthea muttered without looking up. “And hurry, he’s expecting you.”

John rolled his eyes but marched into the open doorway and through the hallways which made him reminisce about his own schooldays. He reached the main hall and entered, looking up at the projected image against the back wall which silhouetted Mycroft’s shape.

“Ah Doctor Watson,” Mycroft smiled condescendingly. “What a pleasure.”

“Mycroft, you can call me John. Once you’ve kidnapped someone over a dozen times I think we can get past the formality,” John snarked as he walked down towards Mycroft and the projector. “So what’s this about?”

“My brother,” Mycroft sighed. “It seems he is not behaving quite like himself as of late.”

“Yeah, you could say that,” John nodded, taking a seat and crossing his legs as he looked up at the posh git. “What’s it to do with you?”

Mycroft bared his teeth but relaxed his face into his usual impassive mask. “My brother had a rather… distasteful meeting with a man by the name of Sebastian Moran. Has Sherlock spoken of him?”

“Not in so many words,” John replied.

Mycroft gave a single nod before clicking a button and bringing a picture up to the wall. The picture showed a man in his late twenties, possibly early thirties with dark blond hair and a thick scar than ran from his left eyebrow down over his cheek. “Do you recognise this person?”

John stared at the man for a moment, tilting his head before shaking it. “No. No I don’t think so.”

“This is Sebastian Moran,” Mycroft replied. “Second in command to Moriarty and if gossip is to believed, his long time lover.”

“Okay…” John trailed off.

“This man was the one holding a sniper rifle to your heart,” Mycroft continued. “He had you in his sights and would not have hesitated to shoot.”

John had known that a sniper had been placed on him, but hearing Mycroft saying it combined with the picture made his head spin and him feel momentarily sick. “Right,” he mumbled.

“When Sherlock...was away,” Mycroft said quietly, “he was captured by a terrorist cell with connections to Moriarty. He was delivered to them in exchange for money and became Moran’s prisoner.”

John felt the ball of nausea grow larger in his stomach; looking at the angry face of the man in the picture he knew that Sherlock wouldn’t have been invited to a tea party.

“Prepare yourself for the next image, John,” Mycroft said softly, his hand shaking slightly as he sighed and pressed the button, turning away from the picture.

John didn’t recognise the image at first, it was almost inconceivable that the thing in the picture could be a human being much less Sherlock Holmes. He was emaciated, his ribs showing through the pale skin which made him look like a prisoner of war with only rags around his waist to protect him from the filth on the floor of whatever hellhole he had been held in. John retched, his eyes widening as he looked over at Sherlock’s face, hardly recognising his best friend behind the curtain of matted curls which reached his shoulders and the black and blue bruises which littered his face.

“Why?” John choked. “Why are you showing me this?”

“I need you to understand,” Mycroft replied. “I need you to see, see what Sherlock went through… to save you and the people he loved.”

“I didn’t ask for this!” John shouted, wanting to flail his arms angrily. “I didn’t want him to be hurt!”

“I know… I know,” Mycroft nodded. “My brother has a certain… relationship with you which means the world to him. He would rather dissolve in acid than admit it, but I can see it under his facade. He needs you, John. Now more than ever.”

“But… he shuts me out. He won’t talk to me. He doesn’t eat, hardly sleeps, he hasn’t solved a case for over a week,” John rambled. “What can I do?”

Mycroft cleared his throat and looked away for a moment. “I will deny all knowledge of this conversation, but can I speak frankly?”

John nodded stupidly, his mind full of questions yet unable to voice a single one.

“My brother likes to believe he is a sociopath but he isn’t. He’s a vulnerable boy in a man’s body. He needs to feel love and be reminded that there is good in the world and that he went through his hardship for a reason. He needs to be thanked and rewarded for the torture and anguish he went through.” Mycroft looked away and then down at his shoes. “I rather think you’re the man for the job.”

“Was he...?” John started, unable to finish the words.

The older Holmes sighed sadly and lowered his head. “I… I don't believe so.  He was checked over at the hospital thoroughly and there was no sign of…”

“Shit,” John gagged again. “Sherlock.”

“Look after him, John,” Mycroft whispered, sounding as though he was genuinely tearful. “Look after him the way I failed.”

John stood from his seat on shaky legs, pulling down his coat and fiddling with his buttons for a moment before walking towards Mycroft and grabbing him tightly. The smaller man wrapped his arms around Mycroft and held him in a half cuddle-half choke hold.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t save him,” John whispered. “But I know that you did everything you could.”

“John…” Mycroft gasped. “This is most irregular.”

“Shut up, Mycroft,” John huffed. “Sometimes in life, you need a cuddle.”

“I’ve never been cuddled in my life,” Mycroft grumbled sounding remarkably like Sherlock.

“First time for everything,” John laughed before letting go. “There, that wasn’t terrible was it?”

“I shall need to send my suit to be pressed once more,” Mycroft huffed. “I have a meeting with the Spanish finance minister.”

“I have a meeting with your brother.” John smiled. “Take care, Mycroft.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW Drug use. 
> 
> It's going to hurt before it gets better... but I promise it will get better.

John practically ran to the tube station after work, his mind buzzing unpleasantly after the chat with Mycroft that had replayed itself over and over again in his mind. He shouldn’t have gone to work, it wasn’t fair on the patients with his mind being focussed elsewhere and if he was honest with himself, he couldn’t even remember who he’d seen or what he’d prescribed for them. 

The short ride home felt like a lifetime, and when the tube finally reached Baker Street, John pushed through the crowd of people and made it back to the house in less than two minutes. He fumbled with his key and finally made it through the door, taking two steps at a time and stilling when he reached the top of the stairs.

He realised then that he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do next.

What would he even say to Sherlock? Would Sherlock talk about his time away? Would he shut John out and lock himself in his room until they both forgot about it?

“Fuck,” John mumbled under his breath, as he pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, fingers steepled under his chin and eyes closed. John’s brow furrowed as he looked at the younger man. Sherlock had been through so much, and it had been for John. And how had he thanked him? He sighed as he remembered the day Sherlock had turned up at the flat, eyes wide and looking lost. John had pushed him to the floor in anger, and even though he knew that Sherlock could have stopped him at any moment, he’d let him. Even with…

Shit.

Even with the pain he must have been in, if those scars were all over his back. And he hadn’t complained once. Never let on that it had hurt. A wave of anger crashed over John, and he walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on out of habit, slamming two mugs down on the counter and making tea for him and Sherlock. 

Sherlock jolted when he heard the bang of ceramic on the counter, and he opened his eyes to look over at John with an upturned eyebrow.

“You feel guilty about something. You also saw three patients with eczema and one who was suffering with an allergy to wheat,” Sherlock grumbled as he rolled to a sitting position with a slight wince. “Why do you feel guilty? What have you done?”

“I haven’t done anything,” John smiled. “I just thought you’d want tea.”

“Tea in the special ‘World’s best detective’ mug which I stole from Lestrade last time he was being annoying. You only use that mug when you feel guilty like the night you kept me awake with that part woman-part howler monkey you were having intercourse with.”

John huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes, it was a nightmare living with the world’s most observant man sometimes.

“I saw your brother today,” John mentioned as he handed Sherlock his brew and then sat in his chair.

“He wasn’t the one allergic to wheat, was he?” Sherlock laughed. “Because Mycroft would go positively mad if he couldn’t eat bread and sweets, the great, fat git.”

“No. He kidnapped me,” John smirked. “The usual.”

“Ah,” Sherlock nodded.

“He… Well… He… Christ,” John spluttered and put his cup down so he could rub his face. “He wanted to talk to me about you.”

“Of course he did,” Sherlock muttered. “He isn’t that interested in the best ways to decompact a bowel or shoot a gun. I’m the only interesting option for Mycroft.”

“Thanks,” John grumbled. “Actually he… he mentioned something… about your time away.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in anger and John could tell he would need to step carefully as he sat back in his seat. “He… mentioned… he told me about... Moran.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to one side and he gulped audibly, lifting the cup to his lips with shaky hands. “O-Oh, What did he say?”

“Not much,” John lied. “He said that he was the sniper who was trained on me and that he was your captor when you were away...”  

“He had no right!” Sherlock shouted, throwing the detective mug across the room until it shattered against the wall. “That wasn’t his story to tell!”

“Sherlock, listen.” John attempted to calm his friend. “Please, relax and listen to me.”

“No. No John. It’s too far. I can’t… I can’t!” he shouted, stopping to look at John before he fled towards his bedroom and slammed the door. John could only move and chase him but it was too late, the door was closed and bolted from the inside. 

* * *

Sherlock pulled the wooden box from beneath the floorboards and ran his fingers across the expensive varnished top. His hands shook as he attempted to open the lid and it took three attempts before he could flick the lid open and look at the contents inside.

Needles, gauze, a tourniquet and a bottle of high quality cocaine sat inside and seemingly called out for Sherlock who acted on muscle memory alone and quickly set about filling up the syringe with a hit. The detective could hear John banging on the door and asking Sherlock to let him in but he wasn’t listening, he could only hear the siren’s song of the drugs which begged to be in his veins and to take him away from the dreadful monotony of everyday life as a failure.

Sherlock braced his back against the headboard and felt for a vein, the ones in his arms were ruined after years of injecting but he managed to find a single point of entry in his groin which pulsed with need. Sherlock pressed on the vein, watching as it pushed to the surface and quickly injected the thin needle into his skin, feeling the sharp scratch of the tip. Sherlock hissed as the liquid drug was pushed into his bloodstream, his head fell backwards against the headboard of the bed as he relaxed his grip on the needle and heard it thud to the floor. The sounds of London completely dissolved into nothingness as the cocaine flooded his brain and left him floating above himself.

“Sherlock! Sherlock open the door!” John shouted, pounding on the door angrily before resting his forehead against the cold wood. “Please!”

A thud broke the silence from inside Sherlock’s room which immediately worried John; at least when Sherlock had gone inside the room he could hear movement but now there was nothing. A void of sound left John with a hollow feeling in his stomach as he stepped away from the door and shoulder barged the wood, hearing it crack but not open against the deadbolt. John winced at the ache in his bad shoulder before trying a final time, harder than the first which split the door completely and bounced it open wide enough to see Sherlock slumped on the floor next to his bed. The younger man was in his tight red shirt and underwear which he had rolled up slightly in order for him to find a vein. John looked down sadly at his best friend and bent at the knees, carefully picking up the used needle and putting it safely out of harm’s way. He returned to Sherlock’s side and opened each eye carefully.

“Can you hear me?” John asked, going through his doctor training rapidly and checking Sherlock out.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, a dozy smile on his lips. “John?”

“Yes it’s me, you utter bellend,” John huffed. “Come on, let’s get you off the floor.”

Sherlock half heartedly attempted to fight John’s grip but he was quickly subdued and lifted until he was lying on the bed with his head against John’s chest and his back cocooned in John’s arms. The two men lay in silence, the only noise being the occasional car passing by the house and their combined breathing.

“I’m sorry that I failed,” Sherlock whispered after a lingering silence between them. “I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger.”

“Shhh now,” John soothed, his hand stroking up and down Sherlock’s prominent spine. “You’re alright, it’s alright now.”

“You want to know what happened in Serbia… I know you want to know but… I can’t. Not yet.” Sherlock sighed sadly, his words slurred with the drugs in his system. “It’s… There was a lot of… It’s still rather raw.”

“I understand,” John smiled reassuringly despite Sherlock being unable to see it. “I understand better than most. When I was shot I didn’t want to talk about it at all. I’m here if you want to talk and even if you don’t… I won’t push the issue but we can’t do this,” he gestured towards Sherlock’s crotch before pulling back. “The drugs. I won’t let you ruin yourself with this shit.”

“Yes John,” Sherlock whispered.

“Sleep now,” John whispered. “I’ll make you something to eat when you wake up.”

* * *

John woke from his dream with a groan, trying to stretch his arms but finding them full of sleeping consulting detective. He frowned as he looked down at the man in his arms; Sherlock seemed so peaceful in his sleep, younger somehow and John couldn’t resist lifting one hand to brush gently through the curls on Sherlock’s forehead. The detective’s eyelids flickered and his mouth twitched upwards in a gentle smile, and John quickly removed his hand, suddenly feeling incredibly awkward about waking up in bed with another man. His face flushed as he shifted his hips beneath the stifling weight of Sherlock’s legs that had entangled with his own during the night, and he felt an all too familiar hardness pressing against his hip. He swore under his breath and cleared his throat loudly, trying to wake Sherlock up so they could get on with the awkward conversation they were sure to have, but Sherlock only sighed in his sleep and gripped tighter to John’s t-shirt, his head burrowing further into the crook of John’s neck.

“Sherlock?” he whispered, giving the brunet a light shake and trying to move his arm from underneath the younger man. Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he whimpered in his sleep, his grip tightening on John until John was sure his knuckles had turned white. He recognised the sign of a nightmare and lifted his hand back to Sherlock’s hair, running fingers through the soft strands until Sherlock quieted. When Sherlock’s breathing had evened out again, John pressed his hand gently against the younger man’s side and pushed, rolling him over and moving to climb out of the bed when he heard Sherlock speak behind him.

“If you’re going to sneak out, John, would you prefer if I pretended to be asleep still?” Sherlock sneered, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and wincing at the headache that was creeping its way in.

John swallowed and laughed nervously, turning to look at the man who was pressing fingertips to his temples with a force that was sure to only exacerbate the pain in his head. “I wasn’t sneaking out. I was getting up. Like I always do. It’s not a crime to get out of bed before 8 in the morning, Sherlock,” he defended, forcing himself to keep eye contact with the man in question. 

Sherlock smirked at John’s lie as he ruffled his fingers through the mess of curls. “If you say so, John. Do we have any painkillers? My head is throbbing.”

John took a deep breath as the memory of last night ran through his mind again. He shook his head lightly and walked from the room, coming back with a glass of water and two ibuprofen. He stood by the bed and watched as Sherlock downed the pills and the water in one go, his fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides as he thought about what he needed to say.

“Look, Sherlock, I think we should talk about last night…” he muttered mostly to himself, just as his and Sherlock’s phones chimed simultaneously. He frowned at the lit up screen in annoyance, choosing to ignore it and carry on with his speech when Sherlock picked up his phone from the nightstand and read the message out aloud, his eyes sparkling. He jumped from the bed and swept past John, headache forgotten, and pushed the bedroom door open with a flourish and disappeared through it, popping his head back through a second later.

“Did you not hear me? We have a case, John! Get your coat!”

John stared after the departing figure with a mixed look of anger and resignation.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW more discussion of scars and torture.
> 
> Poor Sherlock. We are so cruel.

Sherlock balanced precariously on one of the high beams which hung across the abandoned warehouse with the grace of a circus performer. He shuffled across without a single wobble as he reached for the birds nest in the rafters and grabbed the papers which had been woven into the branches and various twigs. Looking smug, he looked down at the Yard and John staring up at him with a look of nervousness. “I told you.”

“Yeah, you’re a regular genius. Can you come down now please?” John panicked. “I don’t know why you couldn’t just wait for the fire brigade to bring the ladders.”

“Time, John!” Sherlock scoffed. “Time is of the essence!”

John’s heart thudded in his chest as he looked up at Sherlock in the air; he desperately tried not to think of his best friend standing on the ledge of Bart’s but he couldn’t help being transported back to that horrible day when his world had crumbled. Watching Sherlock climb down, John took small breaths and forced himself to relax but immediately tensed when he saw the rusty slice of metal hanging from the beam. “Sherlock! Look ou-” he called but it was too late.

The metal sliced through Sherlock’s thin silk shirt and tore it open from shoulder to shoulder. A thin dribble of crimson began to drip down the fabric before dripping to the floor and pooling around Sherlock who blinked rapidly before turning to look at John with a look of absolute surprise.

John was moving before his brain caught up, grabbing Sherlock around the waist before the taller man collapsed into a boneless heap. John shouted for help, thankful when he saw Donovan and Lestrade run towards him with the portable medical kit they always kept on scenes ( _ mostly for when Sherlock was involved. He tended to throw himself into danger without thinking).  _

“Silly git,” John soothed, helping Sherlock to a sitting position before attempting to move behind him to get a better look. He reached Sherlock’s side before the detective shuffled away desperately and turned his injured skin away from John’s view. John glared and shook his head. “Don’t start this, I need to check you out.”

“M’fine,” Sherlock insisted, batting John away. “Just a scratch.”

“Then let me see,” John replied anxiously, looking to Lestrade for support.

“Probably for the best mate, John’s seen worse,” Lestrade smiled. “Just let him have a look.”

“You’re not listening to me!” Sherlock shouted, startling Donovan into letting go of his arm. “I don’t want anyone to touch me!”

John scrubbed at his face and exhaled. “Sherlock…”

“Don’t make me pin you down,” Lestrade joked.

“I'd like to see you try,” Sherlock growled angrily, his furious gaze boring into Greg’s features.

“Right, let’s all calm down. There’s too much testosterone in this building,” Sally scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Your back is open and I’m guessing that’s the reason why you don’t want medical attention since you’ve never been bothered before. I’ve seen John pull splinters of wood from your feet in the middle of Regent’s park and I watched you rubbing your arse with a dock leaf after that witchdoctor scam where he stuck nettles in your pants. You’re hardly shy.”

“Very good, detective,” Sherlock spat although he was rather impressed with Sally’s observational skills. Perhaps she wasn’t the complete pleb he originally believed.

“So, what if I go and get a jacket and put it over your back? Then you can go home and you can do what you need to do in private, yeah?” she asked with a reassuring smile which bordered on smug.

“If you must,” Sherlock sighed. “Do hurry up.”

Sally nodded and stood up; reaching for one of the fluorescent police jackets she returned to Sherlock’s side before opening it up and taking a step back. Her eyes lingered on Sherlock’s shoulder blades in the sliced up material and she just managed to hide the gasp of shock. She couldn’t however hide the look of absolute horror in her eyes which was seen by both Greg and John. Sally lowered her eyes and gave a curt nod before she walked away towards the crowd of police officers. She stopped halfway and looked back sadly, giving a shake of her head before she continued her journey.

“Right, let’s get you home. Up you get.” John smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way but his heart was thudding hard; the way Sally had looked at Sherlock’s back gave him a terrible foreboding at what he might eventually find if he ever had the chance to see Sherlock’s injuries fully in the light.

* * *

The taxi back to Baker Street seemed to take an age, with Sherlock shivering in the backseat as John’s hand rested over Sherlock’s in a comforting gesture. Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to the blond’s and he took a deep shuddering breath as he twisted to entwine their fingers, squeezing tightly and holding on until the car finally pulled up outside the flat.

John shifted forwards first, reluctant to let go of Sherlock’s hand but needing to open the door and pay the driver. Giving one final squeeze, he released Sherlock’s fingers with an apologetic smile and held the door open for the detective. 

“You go in, I’ll pay and meet you upstairs,” he said quietly, putting a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he walked by with a nod of his head. 

John paid the cabbie and thanked him, taking a moment to compose himself on the doorstep before he went in, trying to figure out how to deal with Sherlock. He knew that there was something that Sherlock was hiding from him; he’d caught a glimpse of it a few nights ago but he’d not seen it properly. Sally’s reaction had spooked him somewhat, and he was scared that he’d have a similar one and Sherlock would never trust him with anything personal again. The last thing he wanted to do was mess up the already messed up relationship that they had.

As he walked up the stairs, he thought about the best way to approach the situation. The wound Sherlock had sustained in the warehouse definitely needed to be treated; he’d seen the blood on the ground as he’d helped Sherlock stand, and the state of the beam he’d caught himself on. He sighed as he reached the top step and saw Sherlock sitting on the sofa, head in his hands. He decided to just be straight forward, but take a gentle approach.

Walking towards the sofa, John cleared his throat quietly and sat down next to the brunet, fiddling with the sleeves of his jacket nervously. A hand lifted to Sherlock’s, pulling it away from his face so he could look into wide, panicked eyes.

“Sherlock, I know that there’s something you’ve kept hidden from me this past month, and I’m not going to ask why. You probably have your reasons and I respect that whatever it is has made you… insecure about things but…” Sherlock’s brow creased in annoyance at the words, but he remained silent as John continued, “but I need to clean the wound. The metal you cut yourself on was rusty and if the cut gets infected, there’s going to be more than just me that you’ll have to…” 

John trailed off, not knowing how to finish that sentence without upsetting Sherlock. Sherlock seemed to understand though and nodded minutely, his eyes shining as a shudder ran up his spine at the thought of John seeing his back. 

Sherlock straightened up slightly and carefully slid the borrowed jacket and his own ruined suit jacket from his shoulders, wincing as the material stuck to the blood and pulled at the damaged flesh. “Bathroom?” he asked quietly, standing up and waiting for John to go first. His eyes found a spot on the floor and he focused on it, unable to meet John’s gaze as the blond stood, gingerly holding out a hand and waiting for Sherlock to reject it with a scoff. To his surprise, (and relief) Sherlock took the proffered hand and was led into the bathroom by John, who motioned for him to sit on the toilet lid whilst he grabbed the well used first aid kit from under the sink, keeping his eyes away from Sherlock’s back until he had to look at it, trying to ease Sherlock’s discomfort. 

Tears were steadily falling down Sherlock’s cheeks now, his breath hitching every few seconds as he tried to control his breathing. He knew what would happen when John saw the marks; he’d be disgusted, he’d never be able to look at Sherlock again and, as small as the chance had been even before, it would ruin any chance of anything happening between the two of them in the future.

He felt panic rising, and the overwhelming need to be sick as he saw John kneel on the floor in front of him, eyes bright with concern and what Sherlock thought to be affection. He closed his eyes tight and breathed deeply for a few seconds until the urge abated, and flinched as John’s fingers started to work on the buttons of his shirt. When the shirt was gently slipped off his shoulders, and Sherlock was naked from the waist up, John put his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face and held it still as Sherlock tried to look away, not wanting to see the pity in John’s eyes. What he saw when he finally looked up made his heart skip a beat; the expression on John’s face was anything but pitying. There was a determination in his eyes that made Sherlock’s breath catch in his throat.

“I need you to hear me now, Sherlock. There is nothing,  _ nothing  _ that would make me feel disgust towards you. You are brilliant and amazing and no matter what has happened to you,” John’s voice cracked with unshed tears as his fingers started to stroke through the curls that hung over his ears, “what was  _ done  _ to you… you will always be my best friend. There is nothing we can’t do if we’re together, and we  _ will  _ get through this. Okay?”

Sherlock choked on a sob as John spoke, the realisation that he’d be muttering words like ‘disgust’ and ‘ugly’ making his breath speed up and a pain rise in his chest. He nodded at John’s words, closing his eyes at the soothing touch to his hair, and kept them closed as he felt John walk around to his back.

There was a moment of horrific silence as neither of them moved, and then a shaky exhale from John as he picked up a clean soft cloth and soaked it in lukewarm water, and then tentatively dabbed it over the nasty abrasion on Sherlock’s shoulder blades to clean the dried blood away. He dried it off, relieved to see it wasn’t as deep as he’d originally thought, and pulled the lid off of the antiseptic.

“This may sting, you might want to hold on to something,” John warned, surprised when Sherlock reached back and gripped John’s less dominant hand. John squeezed it, and awkwardly started to dab on the antiseptic with one hand, wincing in sympathy as he felt Sherlock’s grip tighten on his fingers. 

“Okay?” he asked, relieved when Sherlock nodded, but feeling guilty when he realised that he’d need his hand back for the next part. “Erm, Sherlock?” he mumbled, pulling his hand away with a light squeeze. “Just for a minute, I just need to put a dressing over it.”

Sherlock acquiesced and let go of John’s hand, his fingers tingling from the touch. John placed the dressing over the cut and taped it down gently, and stood to clear the kit away, before clearing his throat awkwardly and holding out his hand again. Sherlock took it with shaking fingers and stood, letting John lead him out of the bathroom and to the stairs. 

“Right, so, get some rest. I’ll check on it in the morning to make sure it’s healing okay.” John turned to walk away and head up the stairs, when Sherlock pulled on his hand and lowered his gaze to where they were joined.

“Stay? Stay with me tonight? I…” he muttered, his voice small, “I slept much better when you were with me. Would you?”

John smiled and took a step towards Sherlock’s room, pulling the detective behind him. 

* * *

John woke to darkness, and a strange feeling of contentedness as he tried to move and found his fingers entwined with Sherlock’s again. The detective had fallen asleep on his stomach, one hand twisted underneath him and the other near his face holding on to John’s in a tight grip. He was facing John, and as John’s eyes adjusted to the dark, John noticed again how much younger he looked whilst asleep, just like the first time they’d slept next to each other. He shifted to sit up next to Sherlock, resigned to not getting any more sleep and looked at Sherlock’s now exposed back. 

The scars covered him from his shoulder blades right down to the small of his back, and John felt his eyes prickle again as he thought about the pain Sherlock must have endured. He assumed it was Moran who had got creative with his blade, probably trying to extract information from Sherlock, but what he couldn’t understand was why he’d carved that specific pattern. He couldn’t ask Sherlock, and he daren’t go to Mycroft about this, Sherlock would surely find out. Maybe someday Sherlock would be able to tell him, but until then, John wouldn’t push the issue.

Leaning over the brunet slightly, John allowed his eyes to roam over the expanse of skin, still beautiful to him regardless of the scars. He could see why Sherlock had been so reluctant to let anyone see, but he still wished that Sherlock had confided in him earlier. It became clearer the more he thought about it, though. Sherlock’s repeated words yesterday as John cleaned the wound,  _ ‘ugly,’ ‘disgust,’  _ must have been what Moran had said to him, what he’d taunted him with as his blade bit through the skin. He wanted to do everything he could to make Sherlock believe that those words did not, and never would, apply to him in John’s eyes.

Before he knew what he was doing, John found himself reaching out to trace his fingers over the reddened marks almost reverently, down the curve of Sherlock’s spine, feeling every bump of his spine as he worked his way down to the bottom. He was so wrapped up in his movements that he didn’t realise the moment that Sherlock’s entire body tensed underneath his touch as the detective woke up, his breathing rapid and loud in the quiet of the small room.

_ They look like wings. _

John frowned, a deep wrinkle being forced between his eyes as he tilted his head for a better view, hearing the small whimper which escaped Sherlock’s lips.

John’s hand stilled, his finger just barely brushing the warm skin beneath. “Sherlock?” he whispered. The detective made a soft squeak and slammed his eyes closed at the shame he felt at being so pathetic, so desperately needy and broken. John rushed into action and pulled his arms around Sherlock’s waist, trapping him slightly under his weight to avoid the younger man rushing off in alarm. “Shhh now, it’s okay. You’re safe.”

“You. Dont. Understand,” Sherlock sobbed, each pause in the word a broken cry as he attempted to catch his breath.

“Then tell me. Make me understand,” John begged, putting one hand under Sherlock’s chin and tilting it up so that they could make eye contact despite Sherlock’s tears.

“I may be on the side of the angels,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes watery and almost clear blue as he quoted to John, “but don’t think for one second that I am one of them.” 

John blinked, his frustration evident. “I still… I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t know… I didn’t know,” Sherlock shook his head, “he had an earpiece.”

“Who?” John asked, his eyes wide yet becoming wider when Sherlock whispered the one name which caused a shiver down his spine.

“Moriarty.”


	6. Chapter 6

Morning light filtered through the thin curtains, filling the dim room with a golden hue which illuminated Sherlock’s tear stained face. John sat up slightly, his head resting on one arm whilst the other stroked Sherlock’s side softly. He had removed his hand from his best friend’s back and had resorted to giving comfort in the areas where Sherlock was most approachable. 

“Moriarty was wearing a wire,” John repeated, “and Moran was listening?”

Sherlock nodded sadly, gulping loud at the name being spat from John’s lips.

“And… Moran and Moriarty were… together?” John stammered, the question catching in his throat. “So he… he heard his lover die?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock whispered.

John gave a curt nod of his head, sitting in silence for a long pregnant moment before speaking. “I heard you die and I didn’t hurt anybody.”

“It’s hardly the same John,” Sherlock scoffed. “We weren’t lovers. You ensured everyone was aware of that fact.”

The older man flushed and looked away for a second. “Yeah well… It wasn’t that much different. We spent all of our time together, lived together, shared chores and money… Occasionally shared a bed whilst on a stake out. The only thing missing was the sex.”

“I think I'd have noticed that,” Sherlock grumbled, causing John to giggle high pitched and joyous for a second.

“What I mean is, I lost you and I didn’t hurt anyone… maybe I wanted to… but I didn’t,” John contemplated.

“You’re not a psychopath,” Sherlock replied and rubbed at his teary eyes. “You can’t reason with insanity.”

“He hurt you and I wasn’t there to protect you… to keep you safe,” John whispered, his thick fingers stroking through Sherlock’s curls before pulling his hand back. “You know I’d take this all away or put myself in your place. Your beautiful, pale, perfect skin.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and blinked at John, wondering where the sudden passion had come from. “John?”

“Remember this, Sherlock,” John said with conviction, “regardless of what you think, how you feel or what you see in the mirror. You are beautiful…”

Sherlock gasped, his cheeks flushing pink as he looked across the bed at his best friend, suddenly aware of their nakedness. “John, I appreciate the lie but you don’t have to…”

“No.” John shook his head. “You don’t understand. For once you don’t understand… You are beautiful… to me. Always have been. I… I realised whilst you were away and I thought that you had worked it out and that’s why you were being so awkward with me…”

“Worked what out?” Sherlock panted.

“That I’m attracted to you.”

* * *

John moved to make tea, leaving Sherlock in bed momentarily alone and thinking about the things which John had confessed; he didn’t understand where the sudden passion had come from, nor did he understand why or how he had caused John to be attracted to him but a small bubble of excitement rose up from his stomach.

“It’s just hunger,” Sherlock mumbled, attempting to convince himself.

“Then you should eat,” John replied as he walked through the door, obviously unaware that Sherlock was talking to himself. “I can make toast? Or I think we have bacon somewhere.”

“No, dissolved it,” Sherlock shrugged. “I got bored.”

John rolled his eyes tenderly before putting Sherlock’s cup of tea on the bedside cabinet and nudging him to move over. The detective did so quickly and felt his face heat as John slipped into the covers and reclined against the headboard with a satisfied sigh. “Your bed is much nicer than mine.”

“I didn’t buy mine from the discount section of a supermarket,” Sherlock smirked and attempted to shuffle up the bed, giving a hiss when his shoulder pulled on the scabbed wound.

“No, yours was probably custom made. Filled with feathers taken from the Queen’s swans, you poncy git,” John replied, cautiously watching Sherlock from the corner of his eye.

“Not quite,” Sherlock chuckled as he reached for his cup of tea and took a sip. “It was however custom made. After Mycroft discovered my… injuries. He ordered me a mattress which would be more suitable.”

“That was nice of him,” John added, purely as a way to keep the conversation going.

“Hmm. It was positively hateful. He actually did a nice thing for me,” Sherlock grumbled and rolled his shoulder once more with a wince.

“Does it hurt a lot? I can get you some painkillers? I have codeine in the kitchen but if you need anything stronger then I’ll have to go to the pharmacy.” John frowned, lifting his hand to nudge Sherlock forward to take a look at his shoulder.

“It’s not unbearable. I can manage.” Sherlock nodded with a forced smile. “What are your plans for today?”

“I need to check your shoulder again,” the doctor insisted, “but other than that, nothing.”

“Are you going to insist we talk… about last night?” Sherlock asked tentatively.

John rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand and cleared his throat. “Err… I’m sorry about that. I think it was the emotion of the moment and… well… I just…”

“Do you regret what you said?” Sherlock said in an almost whisper.

“Not at all,” John smiled, “but the last two nights we’ve ended up in bed together and that’s not exactly normal.”

“Pfft,” Sherlock scoffed. “When do we ever do anything normal?”

“After what I said and… spending the night together, I think we should discuss what’s happening between us,” John croaked, wetting his throat with another sip of tea.

“Why?” Sherlock frowned in lack of understanding. “We’re still the same… just with… touching but then again, we always touched. We’re just the same except now I know you desire me.”

John spluttered and visibly cringed at the wording of Sherlock’s comment. “Sherlock, I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. I know you don’t do...that.”

“I wouldn’t normally disagree, I have never felt the urge or the need to participate in ridiculous copulation rituals,” Sherlock replied coldly before turning his head and focussing on John with a soft smile. “But since returning I have found that my thoughts have changed… maybe… I can’t promise anything. I’ve never done this before and I imagine I’ll be terrible at it. You may get frustrated or angry at me…”

“I do that anyway,” John huffed with a slightly ridiculous giggle.

“Yes, but penises weren’t involved then…” he trailed off and smiled when John choked on his tea. “You were suggesting involving our penises yes?”

“Er… eventually,” John admitted, “but I never thought it would be possible.”

“If we are to...engage in coitus,” Sherlock trailed off, a blush covering his cheeks. “I feel it’s for the best if I left my t-shirt on. That way it won’t be a turn-off when you attempt to mount me from behind.”

“Jesus Sherlock,” John spluttered. “There’s nothing about you that could turn me off. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves yet yeah? We’ve just agreed to start something, let’s not bring sex and penises or mounting one another into it yet.”

Sherlock frowned and seemed as though he was about to argue but closed his mouth and gave a single nod. 

“I need to change the dressing and check the wound. I’m not going to be mounting you, or anything else along those lines. Not yet, anyway. Understand?” John asked seriously, watching Sherlock closely for any argument.

“Understood, Doctor,” Sherlock smirked, taking a deep breath as he put down his tea and turned onto his stomach with another pained wince and hiss.

John took a steadying breath as he waited for the younger man to relax on the sheets, his arms coming up to fold under his head. He’d never seen anything quite like the array of marks that littered Sherlock’s once pale skin, turning it deep pink and red, the lines raised and jagged. The pattern consisted of what John could only assume were nasty swipes of a blade; long angry curved lines that made up rough feathers and reached from the top of Sherlock’s back down to the bottom to create a pair of wings, etched deep into Sherlock’s skin. The doctor let out a shaky breath and cleared his throat, holding back the wave of rage that threatened his eyes with tears.

John ran his fingers across the raised, red bumps softly. He remembered reading an article about a body modification practice called ‘scarification’ and the picture which was included looked remarkably similar to Sherlock’s skin, just a lot rougher.

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” John whispered, unable to stop the words escaping his lips as he continued to stroke along Sherlock’s spine. “I wish I could take it back, I wish I could take the pain for you…”

“No, I… I didn’t want you to get hurt. That’s why I left without you knowing,” Sherlock admitted, his face crushed into the pillow. “It would have killed me if you’d have died.”

“Beautiful,” John choked, emotion clearly evident in his voice. “Your beautiful skin.”

“John…” Sherlock started, only to be cut off when John leaned forward and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s shoulder blade. The wound was still fresh and slightly oozing but John avoided the area as he kissed down the tender skin, feeling each bump and imperfection with his tongue as he travelled further and further down.

“You don’t… have to do that,” Sherlock gasped, his spine arching when John’s tongue found a ticklish spot beneath his ribs.

“I know,” John smiled, nuzzling his nose into the space between Sherlock’s hip and arm. “I want to do it. I want to show you that this can be a good thing.”

“How?” Sherlock grumbled. “How can this be good?”

John sat back on his feet and turned Sherlock over until the detective was half sitting, half splayed out on the bed beneath him. The once blue-green eyes were now almost completely black as Sherlock’s pupils devoured the colour until only a thin rim remained.

“Because it symbolises that you came back. You endured this… for me, and for Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. You did all of this for us, for your friends… You returned from the dead,” John croaked, his throat becoming tight with emotion. “You came back for us.”

“I still don’t understand why it’s a good thing,” Sherlock admitted. “You punched me, Mrs Hudson screamed at me and Lestrade… well… he hugged me.”

“We were in shock.” John shook his head. “But… We’re glad you’re home. I’m glad you’re home.”

Sherlock looked down at his hands which seemed to be trembling; he frowned and stared at the offending limbs as though they had done a disservice to him, completely missing the moment when John gained the courage to push forward and take Sherlock’s lips against his own. Sherlock stiffened, his breathing hitching as he blinked rapidly and then relaxed into the embrace as John deepened the kiss, allowing his lips to open slightly and his tongue to flick inside. Sherlock cooed, his hands moving to grip John’s arms tightly as he attempted to passionately kiss the man he adored.

John realised rather quickly that Sherlock was inexperienced in the ways of kissing, and he slowed his tongue until it was just caressing his friend’s whilst running his hands through the raven curls on Sherlock’s head. Sherlock pulled away, panting for breath and flushed pink across his cheekbones and down his neck and chest as he closed his eyes and then tentatively touched his lips with the tips of his fingers, seemingly in shock at the sensations.

“Okay?” John asked with a smile.

“Hmm? Oh...yes...yes fine.” Sherlock nodded rapidly. “Absolutely fine.”

John smiled softly and gave a nod before placing a kiss at the corner of Sherlock’s lips, nuzzling along Sherlock’s jawline and down his throat and neck, enjoying the way the detective’s adams apple bounced with every rough swallow.

“Sherlock, have you ever…” John trailed off, watching as Sherlock blushed harder and rolled his eyes in trademark annoyance.

“Of course not,” he grumbled. “I told you before, I was never interested.”

John gave a single nod before returning to Sherlock’s throat, kissing up to his ear where he nibbled on his lobe. “You can tell me to stop at any time. Whenever you want.”

Sherlock seemed to give a sigh of relief and sagged into John’s arms, tilting his head in an obvious attempt to have John back at the sensitive skin whilst wrapping his arms tightly around John’s midsection, using his long, pale fingers to probe under the fabric of John’s shirt and circle the older man’s navel and work up to the soft, blond curls on John’s chest.

John nuzzled into Sherlock’s neck and throat, tempted to suck and mark the flawless skin to claim ownership of this wonderful man. He moved his hands to Sherlock’s nipples, carefully stroking the pads of his thumbs against the sensitive nubs which had turned a darker pink with arousal. Sherlock jolted, the pleasure so unlike anything he had experienced during his infrequent masturbation sessions as John coaxed Sherlock’s nipples into a hard point before gently scratching over them with his thumbnail.

The noise which escaped Sherlock was almost inhuman; a high pitched wail startled both men and caused Sherlock to put his hands over his face in humiliation.

“Hey,” John smiled, stroking Sherlock’s cheek. “It’s okay. It’s supposed to be like this, you’re going to make noises and it’s good, it’s fine.”

“It’s demeaning,” Sherlock flushed, his hands slipping from his face. “I don’t want to sound like a grunting neanderthal”

John grinned, nuzzling his nose into the space between Sherlock’s jaw and shoulder. “Grunt away. I won’t tell anyone.”

John used Sherlock’s momentary distraction to cup him on the outside of his pants, feeling the hard line of Sherlock’s cock pressing against his palm and returning to kiss Sherlock’s lips when the detective huffed out a surprised gasp at the perfect friction. John used his thumb to press on the sensitive spot beneath Sherlock’s leaking head, massaging it cleverly whilst coaxing Sherlock’s mouth open with his tongue and sweeping inside, tasting the desire and heat in the younger man.

“John,” Sherlock moaned, his eyes fluttering shut.

The doctor moved rapidly, turning his body until he was sitting with his back against the headboard and his legs either side of Sherlock’s slim body. Careful not to upset Sherlock’s wounded shoulders, John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock’s neck and earlobes whilst his hands moved back to stimulate and play with the detective’s nipples.

“I want to see you, touch yourself for me, please,” John groaned, his voice dark and breathy with lust.

“John...” Sherlock whispered self consciously. He didn’t indulge in masturbation often and certainly not when in another person’s company.

“I want to see how you do it. I want to watch you bring yourself off,” John growled, nipping at the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s ear. “Please.”

Sherlock dropped his hand to the fabric of his boxers and cautiously stroked himself over the material, his face was beet red he was sure but he ignored the nervousness in his stomach as he cupped his prick in his large palm. A groan escaped his lips as his sensitive head was caressed by the fabric in perfect timing with John’s talented fingers tweaking his nipples and sending bolts of pleasure directly to his bollocks.

“I… I don’t think this will be a…” Sherlock swallowed dryly, “...prolonged session.”

John giggled softly and kissed Sherlock’s cheek tenderly. “First times never are.”

“And… is this the first and only time? Is this a… one night thing?” Sherlock asked tentatively.

John stroked his hand from nipple to navel thumbing the soft hairs which trailed from the younger man’s belly button beneath his pants. 

“I truly hope not,” John admitted. “But let’s talk when our brains aren’t muddled with desire and arousal.”

Sherlock gave a single nod before slipping his fingers under the tight waistband of his underwear; the fabric wasn’t doing a great deal to hide his erection but John found his mouth watering with anticipation as he watched those long, pale fingers gently pull the garment down to his mid-thigh and wrap his hand around the twitching, red tipped and leaking cock. John groaned, bucking his hips slightly in an attempt to find some friction for his own aching prick which leaked and pulsed a flood of precome into his own bottoms.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, his back arching as his rubbed a trembling finger across his slit to spread the wetness there. “Good lord… John.”

“Shh, I’m right here,” John soothed, kissing Sherlock’s neck and shoulders softly. “I’m here.”

“It’s too much,” Sherlock groaned, his eyes tightly shut as he shivered in his best friend's arms. “It… It’s too intense.”

“You just need to come. Keep touching, move your fist… that’s it… just like that. Keep going,” John croaked, licking his dry lips. “Thrust into it.”

“Please… touch me. Anything, anywhere just…. please,” Sherlock whined, his back arching. “I’m so very close.”

John brought his hands to his mouth and lewdly sucked on his fingers before dropping the now wet digits back to Sherlock’s chest. He rubbed his thumb across the swollen and red nipples before pinching them softly, listening to Sherlock’s breathing hitch with pleasure. John could feel himself leaking more into the fabric of his underwear, bucking his hips to brush against the back of Sherlock’s spine.

“J-John… John… John,” Sherlock chanted, repeating his best friend’s name over and over again as his eyes slammed closed and his teeth bit down on his bottom lip in an attempt to keep himself quiet.

John turned his head and found Sherlock’s lips; slipping his tongue inside he stopped the detective from biting himself whilst bringing him closer to the edge. John swallowed the sweet mewling whimpers which escaped Sherlock’s mouth, enjoying the way Sherlock’s panting breaths hit the soft skin of his philtrum. Sherlock gripped his cock tightly and then jerked, locking his stomach muscles as his orgasm hit and he was overtaken by the pleasurable sensations which rocked his body and caused his mind to become fuzzy. He groaned, deep and low as streams of come covered his lower stomach, even going so far as to hit John’s hands which remained on Sherlock’s now overly sensitive nipples.

Sherlock shuddered and fell bonelessly against John’s chest with a sated grunt as the last drops of his ejaculate dripped from his cock. John continued pressing soft kisses to the areas he could reach whilst running his hands up and down Sherlock’s heaving chest and stomach.

“Beautiful,” John whispered, kissing Sherlock’s fluttering eyelashes and across the bridge of his nose. His hands slipped into his own boxers, still lubricated by Sherlock’s still warm come and he stroked himself rapidly and without finesse in a desperate attempt to reach his peak. He hadn’t felt this worked up since he was a horny teenager around the back of the gym with his first girlfriend.

Sherlock’s eyes blinked open, still slightly hazy and glimmering with unshed tears as he felt John’s hand move across his lower back, hidden by the fabric except from the ever growing spot of wetness which darkened the material at his tip.

“John,” Sherlock groaned, his voice deep and honey. “Oh, John.”

“Fuck…. fuck Sherlock,” John choked, arching his back before pushing himself over the edge with a bitten off cry as he coated the insides of his pants and his fist in ejaculate. He shuddered and twitched as he rode out his orgasm before grabbing Sherlock and turning them onto their sides. John wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s waist, holding tightly as he gave a few soft kisses against Sherlock’s lips.

“Your hand is sticky,” Sherlock complained, snuffling into Sherlock’s neck. “It’s getting on my sheets.”

“I’ll buy you new sheets.” John promised, removing his hand from Sherlock for a moment to pull off his shirt and now filthy pants.

“Not when you see the price,” Sherlock chuckled. “I’ll steal more from Mycroft.”

“Hmm. Just tell him we got spunk on ours,” the doctor smiled, his breathing hitching when Sherlock tentatively ran a probing finger across the burst star shaped scar on John’s shoulder..

“Ours?” came the tentative response.

“Oh… I mean… We don’t have to rush into sharing a bed or anything. I just assumed… Sorry. It’s okay.” John attempted to move, only to have Sherlock pull him back down with a pure and genuine smile.

“Ours,” Sherlock nuzzled into the skin behind John’s ear, “I like the thought of that.”

The two men dozed for a short while, basking in the afterglow of their orgasms and the endorphins which rushed through their bodies at the closeness afforded to them for the first time after so long denying themselves. Sherlock began snoring gently before John shook him awake.

“That was lovely, but I need to look at your shoulder and dress it before we collapse into sleep.”

“It was?” Sherlock asked nervously.

“Mmm,” John nodded. “Perfect.”

“And?...” Sherlock blushed, looking for more compliments.

“It was everything I imagined and more,” the older man grinned. “Now, turn over and let me doctor you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but flipped onto his stomach once more, hiding his smile in the crease of his elbow.


	7. Chapter 7

Unfamiliar light flooded into John’s eyes, causing him to blink rapidly and lift a hand to shield himself. He shuffled his head to the other side, realising that he was lying in Sherlock’s bedroom with the sleeping detective snuggled against his side. The normally bouncy curls were flattened by a thin sheen of sweat, and a line of drool had collected at John’s neck where Sherlock was gently snoring. His eyes fluttered and his mouth occasionally dropped open in a pout with a wheeze before closing once more.

John had never seen Sherlock look so utterly peaceful.

The twinge in his bladder was becoming more insistent and he didn’t really want to ruin their first night of being intimate by pissing the bed the morning after. He pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s crown before pulling himself from underneath Sherlock’s dead weight, ensuring that he remained on his side to protect his still wounded back. Padding naked to the bathroom, John took care of his bodily functions, brushed his teeth and splashed water over his face before returning to Sherlock’s bedroom.

The detective had moved further onto the side which John had been sleeping on, seemingly seeking out the scent of his best friend and lover. John smiled fondly at Sherlock before climbing into the small space left by the lanky younger man; he couldn’t help but stroke through the frizzy curls and lean in to inhale the soft musky smell of sleep which surrounded them both. It had always been a favourite part of John’s morning after’s with his partners, waking up and seeing them sleep slack and relaxed, seemingly blissed out and uncaring about the world outside their little cocoon of warmth and love. John smiled warmly, his heart thumping with devotion for the man beside him. He reached his hand out and wrapped it around Sherlock’s waist, tightening his grip.

Pain exploded through his entire body and mind as Sherlock’s knees jerked up in terrified reaction to the touch. His strong thigh which had been resting comfortably by John had somehow managed to move to allow his knee to give a hard blow against John’s testicles, causing the smaller man to double up and feel momentarily sick to his stomach. He wrapped his arms around his stomach and made a half cough, half gasp as he watched Sherlock roll from the bed and throw himself into the corner of the room, his chest heaving and his eyes wild as he surveyed the room. Noticing that John was in pain, Sherlock’s genius intellect caught up and forced him forward to throw himself at John’s feet on the floor.

“Forgive me, I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered tearfully, desperately attempting to grasp for John’s hand which was now cupping his sore bollocks.

“It’s… okay,” John hissed through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t… it wasn’t…” Sherlock stammered, his eyes blinking rapidly and his chest moving in short bursts.

“An accident. It was an accident,” John reassured. He used his shoulder blade to wipe away the tears which had collected in his eyes before rolling onto his back and exhaling shakily. “You were sleeping.”

“I felt…” Sherlock started before breaking out in deep, mourning sobs. “I felt someone touching… touching my back. I thought… I thought it was him.”

“Shhh,” John soothed, attempting to coax Sherlock from his position by the bed. “Come on, get back into bed.”

“No. No I hurt you. I… I’ll get ice,” he whispered and rubbed at his eyes, cursing himself mentally at his ridiculous mental imbalances to cause this sort of reaction.

“I’m fine. Nothing a cuddle won’t solve.” John smiled as he finally got Sherlock to perch on the edge of the bed. Sherlock rested for a small second before throwing himself into John’s arms and crying openly, huge sobs of fear and terror but also love and need. “Shhh, you’re getting yourself all worked up. I’m fine, you’re fine...we’re all fine. It’s good.”

“I’m such an idiot,” Sherlock mumbled from his position with his nose and mouth squashed against John’s skin. “A foolish, pathetic creature.”

“It was my fault. I should have realised.” John smiled reassuringly and stroked through Sherlock’s hair, moving to one side slightly to allow the younger man space to breathe. “I remember someone trying to wake me up once after I returned from...well, yeah. I had him against the wall by his throat and it took two orderlies to pull me off him.”

Sherlock sobs had retreated into soft sniffles as he was calmed by John’s scent, and the relaxing sensation of clever fingers in his hair. John’s genitals still ached and he felt like he had a stone in the bottom of his stomach and throat where the shock of the pain had stayed, but he was thankful to have calmed Sherlock down. To keep him safe and secure in his arms “Sleep a bit more. I’ll stay here.”

“I don’t think I can,” Sherlock admitted sadly.

“I think you can,” John chuckled, kissing his head. “I could tell you about one of my favourite films? You always fall asleep during them.”

Sherlock sniffed and moved his head to a more comfortable position. “Just stay here. Keep being warm.”

“That I can do,” John grinned.

Both men were back to sleep in minutes. 


	8. Chapter 8

The case itself wasn’t even that difficult; barely a four on Sherlock’s scale but its outcome resonated throughout the Yard and affected Sherlock more than he had ever anticipated. It had started, as it often did, with jealousy.

A newly married couple had been found dead in their flat, blood splashed all over the walls and furniture as Sherlock made his way around the body with his microscope, occasionally stopping to tilt his head as he rifled through information in his mind palace before spouting deductions at break neck speed to Lestrade who quickly wrote the information down before it was forgotten. Their suspect was a woman, mid-thirties, owned two cats, and was fairly successful and well connected in the business world. John blinked and looked down at the two bludgeoned victims with a frown; even after all this time he couldn’t see the amazing details which Sherlock could.

“Motive?” Lestrade asked.

“Sexual jealousy,” Sherlock sighed. “How very dull.”

“So, we’re looking for an ex then?” John asked, keeping a slight distance from his lover. The entire force knew about their relationship and were supportive to the couple but it still made John slightly uncomfortable to show public affection despite the fact that before they were lovers; John and Sherlock were far closer than any platonic friends had any right to be.

“Yes. The suspect and male victim were probably having a relationship before he met his new spouse. This is a whirlwind courtship and wedding judging by the photographs, diary entries and missing wedding jewellery. His ex will have been expecting a proposal for herself but when he asked for the other woman’s hand she became enraged. It’s only because they married abroad and combined their honeymoon that it hasn’t happened sooner,” Sherlock rambled before rubbing at his eyes. “We’ll have her by the end of the evening. I’ll text.”

Lestrade gave a nod and a smile as Sherlock flounced from the room followed by his trusty doctor. The pair turned left from the building and headed into town, flagging down a cab on the main road.

“So, where are we going?” John asked, his fingers skimming over Sherlock’s gently now they were alone.

“I have a hunch,” Sherlock smiled, nuzzling into John’s neck and kissing him softly. “We may need some of your old three-continent Watson persona to emerge.”

“Uh-oh,” John chuckled. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“Relax. You just need to buy a pretty lady a drink and talk to her a little whilst I take a look in her purse.”

John rolled his eyes, relaxing back into the seat whilst Sherlock pulled out his mobile phone and began clicking around on various pages quicker than John could ever hope. 

The wine bar was situated in a bustling part of town surrounded by towering offices. John climbed from the taxi and watched as Sherlock handed the driver the fare before joining John on the pavement. Sherlock looked through the window and smiled. “Ah, there she is.”

“How on earth do you know?! It could be any of the women in this bar,” John queried.

“She’s a thirty-five year old, successful woman who has just committed double murder. She would need a drink,” Sherlock smirked, “and this is the bar she usually frequents.”

“But how do you know it’s her?!” John hissed, quieting himself when a patron exited the building, giving a startled look at both men as he passed.

“It’s easy when you know where to look,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Facebook then?” John raised an eyebrow in challenge.

“Shut up,” Sherlock frowned, saddened that he didn’t get to show off any longer. “I’m going to go and sit at the bar beside her. Wait here for 10 minutes and then enter. Buy a drink for yourself and sit away from us… after a while…”

“Come over and talk to her,” John nodded. “I remember how to do it.”

Sherlock stiffened for a moment before giving a curt nod and walked into the premises, leaving John alone to wander around the building.

The detective walked to the modern bar-stools and sat himself down. He caught the attention of the barman and ordered a gin and tonic before taking a sip of the cool liquid and sighing softly. His stomach was slightly churning and he wasn’t entirely sure why, however he was certain it had something to do with John’s last reply. They had agreed to be exclusive to one another, had even gone so far as to agree that they enjoyed spending time together cuddled up in Sherlock’s large and expensive bed where they would bring one another to spectacular orgasms before falling into a happy and sated sleep. Both men were pleased to find that their nightmares had ceased since they had started sleeping together, the warmth of another body beside them was enough to settle the frenzied thoughts during the night.

Yet Sherlock couldn’t stop thinking that John would decide that it wasn’t what he wanted.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the familiar sound of John ordering a pint. Sherlock turned his head and gave a friendly, strangers smile towards the man as John returned the smile and then looked across the woman sitting beside Sherlock on another of the stools.

Their suspect was pretty, approximately thirty five with long black hair, black rimmed spectacles and a fitted grey suit and skyscraper heels. John gave a lingering look and a fiery smile before he paid for his pint and moved to sit in a comfortable chair across the room where he could still see the woman and Sherlock whilst also keeping an eye on the sports playing on the large TV screen. 

Sherlock watched as John occasionally flicked his eyes up to the two of them, giving a heated and lustfilled look as he licked his lips occasionally. Sherlock could feel his cheeks flushing and immediately attempted to control his ridiculous transport, cooling his skin as best he could with mental agility alone.

After fifteen minutes or so, Sherlock had finished his first drink and ordered a fresh one just as John had finished his pint too. The doctor returned to the bar and stood close to the suspect as he pulled out a wad of notes.

“Pint please.” John smiled at the server. “And whatever this lady is having.”

The woman flicked her eyes up to John, fluttering them slightly and raising an eyebrow. “Presumptuous. How do you know I want a drink?”

John chuckled and lowered his eyes, a smirk playing across his thin lips. “You seemed thirsty.”

“Oh did I?” the woman chuckled, throwing back her hair to fall over her shoulder. “And how would you possibly know that?”

John licked his lips and leaned closer to her. “Because I’m a doctor. I know these things.”

Sherlock felt his heart thudding as he watched John work his magic; he had never been witness to this side of John. He had seen doctor John, soldier John, caring John and exasperated John but never sexually charming John. The thought stuck at the base of Sherlock’s throat and caused him to almost choke as he swallowed around it.

“A doctor?” the woman asked, clearly impressed.

“Army doctor,” John continued before holding out his hand. “Dr John Stamford.”

_ Clever,  _ Sherlock admitted,  _ not giving your real name to a sexually jealous ex-boyfriend murderer. _

“Rosemarie Blake-Harrington,” the woman replied, pouting slightly as she took his hand and shook it. “So… that drink?”

John nodded towards the barman who returned with their drinks, just as John pulled up a stool and turned himself so that Rosemarie would have to twist herself slightly away from Sherlock in order to talk with him. Sherlock moved rapidly to begin opening the zip of the woman’s handbag which had been left on the bar.

“What do you do?” John asked, licking the froth from his lips as he took another drink. Sherlock was momentarily distracted from his job at hand at seeing the pink muscle exit John’s lips, remembering how it felt to have that tongue slithering down his ribs. His breathing hitched which caused the woman to turn around in alarm. John thought quickly and placed a hand on her knee. “Let me try and guess?”

Rosemarie tilted her head and raised an eyebrow before nodding.

“Something important. Your suit looks expensive and I don’t know much but I know those heels are Louboutin’s with the red soles.” John deduced.

Sherlock internally scoffed. The woman’s suit was originally expensive but she had purchased it second hand; it had been tailored twice and her shoes were counterfeit.

Rosemarie crossed her long legs and ran her  _ not quite  _ designer shoes up John’s calve. “So far, so correct.”

Remembering what Sherlock had said at the crime-scene, John smiled and added, “You work in business, you’re quite familiar with the business world and have a lot of high profile contacts.”

“We’re in the heart of the financial district,” the woman chuckled. “Not that hard to guess.”

John raised an eyebrow before looking to the fingers on her left hand and noticing a large cut diamond ring. His brain emitted a klaxon sound that the ring on the woman’s finger was the exact same as the missing wedding jewellery which had been stolen from the dead woman’s finger.

“Oh, you’re married,” John said, laying on a tone of disappointment. “My apologies.”

Rosemarie looked at her hand as though she had forgotten she was wearing the jewellery. “Yes… I mean… No. I was married, he passed away recently.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” John said in his doctor voice. “Was it sudden?”

_ Very sudden. He almost didn’t notice,  _ Sherlock scoffed internally.

“Yes and No,” Rosemarie sighed. “He had been… sick for a while. Pulling away from me in an attempt to protect me when he should have stayed. I’d have loved him regardless.” She bit her lip before looking up as tears formed in her eyes.

“Some people don’t realise the good things they have in life,” John whispered, looking past the woman’s shoulder to look at Sherlock’s profile as the detective rapidly ran his eyes across the business journal inside the counterfeit designer bag. 

“No. No they don’t,” Rosemarie agreed before picking up a napkin and dabbing her eyes. “Now, enough of that. How are you still single? You’re attractive, successful and charming.

“My last girlfriend left me for somebody else,” John whispered, “broke my heart.”

“Oh dear,” Rosemarie said as she took John’s hand in hers. “That’s very cruel.”

John wrapped his hand around hers, wondering how long Sherlock would be as he desperately wanted to get out of this situation. It was making his insides feel like they were squirming as he flirted with another person in front of the love of his life.

His answer was given when Sherlock pulled his hands from the bag, immediately and accidentally knocked over the glass his gin and tonic had been in, smashing it loudly on the floor and causing John and Rosemarie to both look around at him.

“Oops,” Sherlock grimaced, putting on his best drunken act. “It just...thlipped!”

“Did you hurt yourself?” John asked, letting go of Rosemarie’s hand and walking behind her to hold Sherlock’s wrist. “Are you cut anywhere?”

“Nope,” Sherlock chuckled.. “What are you, thome kind of doc-tor?”

“He is actually,” Rosemarie chimed in from behind, suddenly interested in the scene as her newest friend proved his credentials. 

“I think I should get him home. I don’t think this is the place for someone this drunk.” John rolled his eyes and grasped Sherlock under his arms. “Come on fella, up you go.”

“I’m perthectly fine!” Sherlock twirled, intentionally losing his balance and grabbing a few strands of Rosemarie’s black hair from the back of her coat hanging from the bar. He put them in the open bag he had ready in his pocket before grabbing John tightly. “Maybe… I could possibly do with some chipth.”

John pulled a comical face at Rosemarie before holding the pretend drunk up. “It was nice to meet you, Rosemarie.”

“Same, John,” Rosemarie smiled, rummaging into her bag and pulling out her business card. “Call me?”

“Definitely,” John nodded before shuffling past her with Sherlock in his arms. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

“Toodle-pip!” Sherlock called as he was manhandled towards the door.

John continued to carry the acting Sherlock around the side of the building before they ducked down an alleyway and Sherlock straightened himself up, smoothing down his sleeves where John’s hands had crumpled them. 

“Get everything you need?” John asked, feeling slightly giddy that he had done something more hands on in an investigation rather than just follow behind Sherlock.

“Hmm,” Sherlock mumbled, taking off in long strides to the other end of the alley which connected to a main road. John frowned but followed after his lover, attempting to entwine their fingers together which were slapped away by Sherlock who was focussed on walking. John was confused but continued along as much as possible but Sherlock’s legs were too long and his strides too wide.

“Hold on,” John grumbled, half jogging to keep up.

Sherlock held his hand in the air and watched as a cab pulled up beside him. He opened the door and climbed in before closing the door behind him. “This one’s mine. You get another one.”

“Sherlock...wait…” John shouted, putting his hand on the handle just as the driver pulled away. The motion jarred John’s shoulder and caused him to take a half step forward before cringing into himself as pain flared through his body.

“John?” Sherlock said softly, ordering the cabbie to stop and jumping out to suddenly run to John’s side. “Come on, let’s go home. I’m sorry… I didn’t… that wasn’t intentional.”

“Save it,” John growled, pushing Sherlock away with his good arm and walking to the cab. He climbed in the front and slammed the door, leaving Sherlock to sit in the back behind the partition. An awkward silence pervaded the air as the cabbie set off for Baker Street, occasionally whistling in order to break the tension.

“Will you desist?!” Sherlock called through the speakers. “That really is the most inane sound!”

The cabbie slammed his lips together and stepped on the pedal harder in an attempt to get them home and out of his cab as quickly as possible.


	9. Chapter 9

All three people in the car were happy to see the black door of Baker Street; the cabbie pulled up and accepted the money given by John who winced as he tried to open the door to the car. Sherlock attempted to help but was immediately stopped in his tracks by the glare given to him by John through the window. The younger man slunk to the pavement and opened the front door, leaving it open as he ran up the stairs.

John stilled himself at the doorway and took a few controlled breaths. Whatever was going on with Sherlock was surely to do with their newly discovered relationship, and knowing that Sherlock was inexperienced allowed John to give him more slack, but he wasn’t sure he could continue if Sherlock remained this way.

He walked up the stairs and kicked off his shoes before cautiously peeling off his coat, wincing when it slipped from his shoulder. 

“Here,” Sherlock said quietly, handing John an ice pack wrapped in a tea-towel. “I’m also making tea… Earl Grey… the good stuff.”

John cleared his throat and nodded. “Cheers.”

“I… I feel like I should apologise. Although I had no part in your injury this time,” Sherlock spoke as he poured two cups of tea. “But I hear it’s the right thing to do.”

“It is when you’re being an arsehole,” John grumbled. “There was no need for that little hissy fit.”

“I know… I just…” Sherlock trailed off into silence.

“Oh come on. I’d love to know the explanation behind his one. Did I deduce something wrong? Or ruin our investigation in some completely mental way that nobody else would notice but you?”

“No,” Sherlock whispered as he looked down at the floor, putting the mugs on the table and standing with his hands clasped in front of him.

“Little altar boy now! Look at you, all innocent” John laughed snidely. “You don’t have to pretend to be sorry.”

“I AM!” Sherlock shouted before inhaling. “I saw… I watched the old John… the one  _ they  _ saw come out.”

“What are you on about?” John frowned. “Old John?”

“The women. The other women who have had you! The ones who could give you what you wanted that I can’t!” Sherlock spluttered, pulling at his curls.

“The wom-- Sherlock? Are you… jealous?” John shook his head before sitting down on the sofa and placing the ice pack over his sore shoulder with a wince. “Sit down, please.”

“No. I need to--work.” Sherlock attempted to move but found he was stuck under John’s glare. His legs eventually allowed themselves to move but only to the sofa where he sat beside John primly.

“Whatever you’re thinking is wrong,” John insisted. “I only did that because you asked me to.”

“The way you looked at her…” Sherlock stumbled over the words, feeling emotion brewing in his chest as dark as his tea.

“You bloody idiot,” John laughed, causing Sherlock to look up. “I was looking at you. When I was away from the bar? You were sitting directly in front of the window and the light was coming through and lighting up your hair so it looked almost auburn. You looked beautiful and I seriously considered walking over and snogging your face off...but I didn’t want to compromise the case.”

“Oh,” Sherlock whispered staggered. 

“Yes, oh. You git.” John shook his head and pulled Sherlock to rest their foreheads together. “That… You’re right. That was the old John. The unhappy John who was desperately addicted to his dangerously wonderful detective flatmate but who couldn’t do anything so used flirtation and women to fill the gap.” 

“But… breasts,” Sherlock stammered, blushing slightly at the tips of his ears.

“What has that got anything to do with it?” John giggled. “I love you… I er… shit I mean...er...”

Sherlock’s brain short circuited, shutting down his hard drive as he replayed that statement countless times before blinking back online. “Sorry? Repeat that?”

John looked up, his cup was empty and the ice which was once on his shoulder was now just a bag of mostly water. “Oh, you’re back.”

“What?” Sherlock frowned.

“I said… what I said and then you went all hazy eyed and spaced out. You’ve been gone about… yeah about 20 minutes,” John nodded.

“You… love… me?” Sherlock asked carefully.

“Obviously,” John muttered, a shy smile covering his lips. “I understand if you can’t say it back yet. I know you’re not quite as sure about this but…”

“I adore you,” Sherlock responded quickly, his eyes snapping across to stare at John. “I didn’t realise until this moment but I do. I love you too. Like you love me. Only probably more.”

John grinned wide and let his fingers trail through Sherlock’s curls, pulling him down for a kiss which was met with enthusiasm by the detective. Sherlock whimpered, his hands finding their way to John’s hips and his nails digging in when John took Sherlock’s bottom lip between his teeth and nibbled gently. Fingers tugged at Sherlock’s hair, guiding the detective to lay back on the sofa and John shuffled forwards, situating himself flush between Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock shifted beneath the blond, lifting his hips and gasping when he made contact with John’s hardening cock through two layers of fabric. He thrust up again and groaned at the sweet friction, feeling himself close to the edge already. Pushing against John’s shoulders, he grudgingly separated their mouths and looked up at John with reverence.

“Can we… not here, Mrs Hudson come come up at any minute. Bedroom?” he asked timidly, making John smile at the uncharacteristic tone in Sherlock’s voice.

John leaned down and placed a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “Of course. Whatever you want.”

  
Sherlock felt his breath leave his body in a rush as relief flooded him, and when John moved from the sofa and held out his hand to Sherlock, he took it and followed John into  _ their  _ bedroom.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My amazing and beautiful friend Gem helped me with this chapter when I had a total muse breakdown. I love her.

John nuzzled his nose across Sherlock's chest, his tongue licking away the beads of sweat which were trapped in the sparse hairs spattered across Sherlock's torso. Sherlock arched his back, desperate to reach for John but also to get away from the overly intense sensations which were making his brain spin. The doctor smiled reassuringly and entwined his fingers into Sherlock's own, squeezing them gently before kissing along the concave of Sherlock's stomach which was still far, far too pronounced.

“I need to feed you up,” John grumbled, placing a sweet kiss on each of Sherlock's hip bones. “You're all skin and bones.”

“Are you trying to make me fat?” Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes playfully despite the pink flush which covered his cheeks and throat.

“Of course not,” John smiled, kissing along Sherlock's inner thighs and watching as the younger man's breathing hitched and he blinked rapidly. “I'm just ensuring that you have enough energy.”

“If I have enough energy to run after criminals, I'm sure I have enough energy for…. Oh...” He blushed harder, clearing his throat and using his free hand to cover his face. “You mean for...”

“Sex,” John nodded. “Yes.”

“John,” Sherlock groaned, his eyes fluttering closed only to rapidly open again and gaze at John with such tenderness and absolute devotion that for a moment, John felt his throat become clogged and his heart increase in pace.

“Keep your eyes fixed on me,” John whispered, the meaningful words lingering in the air between them as Sherlock looked up unblinking as John kissed along his collarbone and down to his flushed skin across his chest. “Please. Can you do that for me?”

Sherlock gave a tentative nod before exhaling shakily, watching as John lowered himself gingerly towards Sherlock's cock. He had never been this close to another man's genitals before and it was fairly terrifying to have this amount of power handed to him by the normally aloof detective.  

“John,” Sherlock sighed, his back arching in an attempt to find friction as his eyes fluttered closed.

“No. Eyes on me,” John replied, his indigo eyes eaten up by the black pupils as he gazed up at Sherlock. “Stay with me.”

Sherlock whimpered but kept his eyes fixed on John as the doctor inhaled deeply before letting it out with a shaky breath. John pressed soft kisses along Sherlock’s inner thigh, their eyes remaining on one another as John’s mouth finally came into contact with Sherlock’s prick. Sherlock stiffened and whined deep and low in his throat as John cautiously allowed the first inch of Sherlock’s rather generously proportioned cock into his mouth, tasting the tang of precum for the first time as he licked across the slit which leaked profusely. 

The younger man grabbed for support on anything he could, finally ending his scrabbling on John’s shoulders as he dug his nails into the pale skin. His eyes remained on John’s, wide and utterly amazed as he watched his best friend and the love of his life lapping around the skin of his tip before dipping his head a bit further. Sherlock groaned, his eyelids fluttering as his eyes rolled back at the sensations he hadn’t known existed.

He hadn’t realised he was chanting his love for John until the doctor pulled away with a grin. “I know. I love you too.”

“I… I can’t… It’s too much,” Sherlock choked, his breathing coming quick and shallow.

John smiled reassuringly and wrapped his thick fingers around Sherlock’s cock, pumping at the shaft rapidly and watching as Sherlock went boneless and collapsed back slightly. "Take a few deep breaths," he whispered soothingly once he noticed how close Sherlock was to hyperventilating, pressing a soft trail of moist kisses up Sherlock's trembling inner thigh. Sherlock whined with a low and shaky grunt, and John moved his mouth back to the twitching cock, mouthing at his foreskin gently and licking a slow, eager stripe around the glans.

"John," Sherlock hissed, and his waist shook as he resisted the need to buck and thrust into John's working mouth, "John, please! I…I can't…I've never…"

John slid his free hand up Sherlock's juddering stomach and along his heaving ribs to thumb and press gently at his nipples. The distraction made Sherlock wheeze and gurgle out a moan of pleasure, and John grinned, tightening his grip at the base of Sherlock’s erection. When Sherlock's eyelids fluttered again, his eyes rolling back, John let Sherlock's cock fall from his mouth and sucked a few small kisses up to Sherlock's navel. Sherlock's skin was salty and musky with gathering sweat, and John savoured the taste of it on his tongue with a heavy and aroused breath, nosing his way up the middle of Sherlock's sternum.

Stroking Sherlock's shaft and nipples simultaneously, "Look at me," he said in a husky but quiet murmur. "Sherlock, I want you to keep your beautiful eyes on me. Come on, please, look at me."

Biting on the inside of his mouth, Sherlock took several long, deep, steadying breaths and peeked through his lashes at John. His pupils were wide, his eyes glistening darkly, and John gazed into them as he kissed Sherlock's neck, lovingly smearing his mouth and nose along his skin. Removing his fingers from where he was teasing the areola around Sherlock's left nipple, John reached strongly around his waist to palm at his back and buttocks, moaning at the heat pouring off Sherlock's naked skin in waves.

Sherlock writhed into and against John's hands, pushing up into the circle of his left, and grinding back into the grasping cup of his right, "John…John…I don't know what to…"

"It's okay," John replied with a shake of his head and a smile, kissing the edge of Sherlock's trembling chin, "it's fine…touch me more, if you like..."

"Yes," Sherlock gasped thickly, and rubbed fluttering, nervous, sweaty hands over John's neck, shoulders and back. He was restless, but the freedom to touch and grip at John made him much more focused, and so John stroked his cock a little more, working up the best rhythm to appease a jittery Sherlock.

The flat was silent except the sound of slick skin and panting breaths as John and Sherlock stroked one another. John slithered further up Sherlock’s body, resting their chests together to allow them to press their cock’s against one another whilst giving them the opportunity to kiss at the same time. Sherlock sighed, deep and desperate when one of John’s hands wrapped around both shafts and began to stroke, the other moving to gently brush away the strands of hair which were stuck to Sherlock’s forehead with gathering sweat. John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s, feeling the detective’s breathing huffing against his face as he picked up the pace, faster, faster, faster.

“John!” Sherlock cried, moments before his spine stiffened and his eyes flew open in a desperate attempt to find John’s gaze. John maintained eye contact, smiling reassuringly at his lover as Sherlock finally tipped over the edge into orgasm with a wet exhale and a grunt as splashes erupted across both of their stomachs, John’s hand and his cock.

“God, Sherlock,” John groaned, flexing his bum cheeks as he rutted into his hand. “I’m going to… fuck.” He came with a bitten off groan, following Sherlock into orgasm and adding his own essence to Sherlock’s heaving stomach and chest.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered, grabbing John tightly and pulling him down. “I’m sorry about earlier… about everything really. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” John smiled, kissing Sherlock sweetly before grimacing as they pulled apart with a slick sound. “How about more tea?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes playfully. “Fine, but this is the only time you can guilt me into making tea. After that you’re not allowed anymore. We’re even.”

“Deal,” John laughed, putting his good arm behind his head and watching as Sherlock padded naked towards the door before stilling and turning back with a look of nervousness plastered across his face.

“What’s wrong?” John asked with a frown.

“I didn’t…” Sherlock frowned, tilting his head. “I didn’t feel like I needed to hide my back from you. I almost… forgot it was there.”

“That’s good,” John smiled reassuringly. “I was too busy looking at your arse anyway.”

“Deviant,” Sherlock smiled, his cheeks rosy as he reached for the box of tissues to dab at his semen covered chest and stomach.


	11. Chapter 11

“ Yes,” John hissed into his mobile, “I got the posh biscuits you like, and the special honey… bloody hell Sherlock if you’re so bloody fussy why don’t you come and shop for them yourself? You don’t have to keep sending me picture messages to ensure I know what the bloody packet looks like.”

John stopped still in the deli, his eyes wandering over the various packages of ridiculously expensive luxury items which Sherlock had insisted he needed. He said his goodbyes to his lover before hanging up and rubbing at his face.

“ John?” A voice from behind. “Dr John Stamford?”

John ignored the name, obviously it wasn’t for himself as he picked up two packets and looked at the various labels explaining they were fairtrade and organic. He almost jumped when he felt somebody touch his shoulder.

“ John?” the woman asked, her eyebrow lifted. “Remember me?”

The doctor blinked rapidly, desperately searching his memory for the woman’s name. If Sherlock’s mind was a super computer, then John’s was a card reference manned by a dithering old man named Norman.

“ Rosemarie,” he muttered, then looked up with a smile. “Hello, how are you?”

“ Little bit peeved you didn’t call,” she smiled flirtatiously. “I was giving you all the signals until that drunk idiot interrupted.”

John bristled slightly, knowing that the murderess was talking about Sherlock. “Well, I couldn’t just let him get into trouble or hurt himself, could I?” he smiled. “Well… it was nice seeing you again.”

“ Wait, shall we get a drink?” Rosemarie asked, fluttering her eyelashes.

“ I don’t really have time,” John admitted. “Another time though? I’ll call you.”

Rosemarie pouted but nodded. “Another time… John Watson.”

“ Yeah,” John smiled, putting back the products and giving a half wave as he exited the shop and moved down an alleyway, grabbing for his phone to contact Sherlock immediately. Something niggled in the back of his mind as he pulled out his phone.

_ Another time, John Watson. _

John’s blood ran cold as he realised that she had called him by his real name. The way that he hadn’t replied to the name John Stamford hadn’t helped either. John picked out his phone and thumbed in Sherlock’s name, pressing the call button as he felt a sharp scratch at his neck.

“ You should have called,” he heard before everything went dark.

  
  


* * *

Sherlock looked at his phone and rolled his eyes. Sliding the answer bar across,  he immediately began a tirade against his useless friend.

“ Honestly John, it’s not that difficult to find…” he paused, listening to the quiet scuffling from the other end with a sensation of nausea rising in his belly. “John? John?!”

“ Hi there,” a female voice purred across the line. “John’s indisposed at the moment. Can I help at all?”

Sherlock felt his heart still and his entire body run cold. “Who are you?”

“ Oh, Mr Holmes, I’m upset you don’t remember me. You certainly had enough time to get to know me when you rifled through my purse. I’m shocked, I expected more from you.”

“ Rosemarie,” Sherlock sneered. “Whatever this is, we can negotiate. You don’t need to hurt John. I can speak to Lestrade, he can help you.”

“ Hmm, but where’s the fun in that?” Rosemarie asked with a giggle. “I’m already going to jail for life thanks to that bastard and his whore. I might as well go for three.”

“ Why?” Sherlock said, his voice remaining passive as he desperately fought the terror, rushing to his bedroom and grabbing his other phone which connected straight to Mycroft. He thumbed out a message and sent it whilst keeping Rosemarie on John’s phone. “What has John Watson done to you?”

“ He played me!” she shouted, her voice becoming shrill. “He made me feel something! Then he took it away. I love him and he loves me!”

Sherlock blinked, shocked by the outburst. “Rosemarie... “

“ No!” she cried. “You don’t understand. He wants to be with me but you’re in the way. He’s mine, we had a connection.”

“ Okay… Okay let’s just… relax,” Sherlock attempted to calm her.

“ What, so you can get your friends at Scotland Yard onto me?” she scoffed. “No. He’s mine. You’ve lost him!”

Sherlock could only stand, blinking at the skull on the mantle as the phone was disconnected, leaving him in silence.


	12. Chapter 12

John awoke with a choked gasp. He opened his eyes and blinked, attempting to rid himself of the grainy sensations in his eyes as he looked around the unfamiliar room. The place was small, quite tastefully decorated with whitewashed furniture and framed pictures of sunsets and beaches on the walls. John twisted his head, attempting to find more information from his surroundings but could only really focus on the feelings of being captive in a strange bed, naked from the waist up with a strange tickling sensation against his ruined shoulder. He hissed and moved away, looking at his captor with a sneer.

“ Ah, you’re awake,” she smiled. Her hair was pulled back into a tight knot and she was wearing loose sweatpants and an old band T-shirt as she ran her fingers across his scar with intrigue. “This is interesting.”

“ What do you want, Rosemarie?” John snarled, his tongue and mouth dry from whatever drug she had pumped into him outside the shop. He would have Molly run a tox screen on his blood when he got back to Barts.

“ Don’t be grumpy,” she giggled, tapping his scar with her finger. “Always so grumpy when you wake up. I made pasta, would you like some?”

“ No,” John spat. “I want to go home.”

Rosemarie frowned, lines cutting into her forehead as she tilted her head. “You are home, silly.”

“ No, I’m really not,” John replied, attempting to get up only to realise his arms were tied to the bed at his waist. “I live at Baker Street.”

“ Pfft,” the woman scoffed, curling her body tightly around John’s and stroking his slightly stubbled chin. “We all know that you’re only there because you hadn’t found the right person. You couldn’t stay with that weirdo forever.”

“ Sherlock isn’t a weirdo,” John replied immediately, turning his head and glaring at his captor, hatred obvious in his eyes as he stared at her face.

“ You just think you love him because you’re confused,” Rosemarie soothed, kissing John’s chest and up his neck. “It’s okay, I’m here now.”

“ You’re fucking deranged,” John spat and turned his head, looking at the room for a way of escape but finding none. He couldn’t pull against his restraints with his shoulder still weak from being pulled by the taxi and he didn’t have any weapons on him in which to launch a daring escape, something Sherlock would have been perfectly suited for.

“ No I’m not!!” Rosemarie gasped, slapping John hard and getting up from the bed to pace around the room. “No, I’m not. You love me, you love me, I know you do!”

“ Rosemarie,” John said softly in his best reassuring Doctor tone, “this is just a mistake. I understand, you felt something and thought that it was more than it was...but it’s okay, we can fix it.”

The woman stilled, her head lowered whilst she bit her lip, turning to face John she narrowed her dark eyes. “You must love me if you think we can fix it.”

John internally sighed; this was becoming difficult to fight. He just hoped that Sherlock found him in time before this loon decided to start re-enacting a scene from Misery.

“ Look,” Rosemarie smiled and reached for a photo album (John bet Sherlock would have known where she had purchased it and where it had been made with barely a look) which she had left by the bedside. She sat at John’s side and opened it, lifting it so John could see from his prone position. “This is going to be our wedding, see?”

John could only gape as page after page of photos of weddings had been changed and now featured his head pasted onto the groom. He recognised them from some which had been on the blog but also from the papers and various online sources. The brides all had similar treatment, with Rosemarie’s face glued over the model.

“ I was thinking yellow and white as a colour scheme, what do you think?” Rosemarie asked with a soft smile and a breathy, dreamy tone. “It would bring out the colour in your eyes.”

“ I think you’re insane,” John mumbled before blinking. “Whatever you want, hunny.”

Rosemarie’s face lit up and she clapped with glee. “Let me show you the table centrepieces! They are amazing!”

* * *

Sherlock paced back and forth outside Baker Street. He had already been to the scene of John’s kidnapping which he had located using the GPS on John’s phone. Sadly, it seemed Rosemarie was technologically savvy as she removed the battery from John’s phone, stopping all tracking abilities.

The detective stilled as Mycroft’s sleek car pulled up to the kerb and the door opened, showing Mycroft holding his trusty umbrella. “Brother mine, any news?”

“ No. Nothing. I can’t… Mycroft… Please help me. Please. I’m begging. I’ll do anything, any case you have, I’ll do your filing if you help me. Please help me get John back,” Sherlock pleaded, wide eyed and panicked.

“ Calm yourself, baby brother,” Mycroft insisted brusquely, shuffling over to allow Sherlock to climb inside. Once the brothers were safely ensconced in Mycroft’s car, Sherlock broke down, massive sobs escaping his chest as he grabbed at Mycroft's arm roughly. “I can’t lose him.”

“ You shan't,” Mycroft insisted, shifting awkwardly in his seat in an attempt to force Sherlock off his arm. “We’ll find him. I have Anthea on it and I have informed Lestrade… apparently he had no idea about the suspect. You didn’t inform him after the crime scene.”

Sherlock gulped, his heart racing as he remembered that he hadn’t in fact contacted the DI after their meeting with Rosemarie due to the incident with the car and John’s shoulder. “Oh.”

“ Quite,” Mycroft nodded. “But none the less, I can’t imagine it will be too hard to find her.”

Sherlock had finally pulled himself together and had a semblance of control when both his and Mycroft’s phones chimed with messages from Anthea. A picture message which startled both men into stunned silence.

The photo was taken from Rosemarie’s Facebook page and showed a selfie with the woman and John. It was taken from above the shoulders, showing only their faces as Rosemarie grinned happily, her eyes sparkling whilst John kept his mouth in a firm line which showed Sherlock that John certainly wasn't having a picnic with his captor. It was the line of text which caused the most shock.

_ Me and the Husband to be! Lazy day in bed. Love my Doctor-bear so much! _

Sherlock and Mycroft shared a look before Mycroft was on the phone, barking orders about ISP addresses and tracking.

“ Please,” Sherlock whispered, rubbing his hand across his dry eyes. “Find him.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter with Rosemarie and then we'll go back to the scars.
> 
> *TW hinted child abuse but nothing major. Just a quick warning*

“ So, I was thinking,” Rosemarie smiled as she entered the bedroom where John was being held hostage, “you probably need to pee right about now.”

John indeed did need to go, but he was hoping to get her trust enough to release him before he made his move. After twenty four hours and numerous discussions about serviettes, he wasn't sure how much more he could get away with lying to her. He had no misgivings that he could take her down easily and without incident if he could gain that tiny bit of trust.

“ Yeah, could do with a toilet break,” John smiled, turning on his charm. “Fancy getting me up and I’ll go? Then maybe I could cook us some dinner? What do you fancy, wifey? I do this brilliant thing with chicken and peas”

Rosemarie narrowed her eyes, a flash of delight visible for a moment before her cynicism returned. She lifted her hands from behind her back holding an empty milk carton with a dramatic wince. “Sorry snookums, If I let you out, you’ll try to escape.”

“ No I won’t,” John rolled his eyes playfully, “why would I?”

“ To go back to him,” she spat. “That bloody  _ detective.” _

“ Pfft,” John scoffed. “No, I love you. Why would I leave you? We’re getting married, Silly-Billy. I didn’t just sit through two hours of bouquets for nothing.”

Rosemarie stilled, tilting her head as thought listening to a voice in her head before taking a step forward, she moved to untie the bonds at John’s wrists which were rapidly becoming chafed before stopping herself. “No. Not yet. I can’t trust you yet,” she said as she pulled back the covers of the bed where John was laid and fiddled with John’s fly to release his completely flaccid cock. “Oh, that’s a biggy. Can’t wait for our wedding night.”

“ Hmm,” John sneered, closing his eyes in humiliation as the plastic milk bottle was placed around his cock.

“ Okay gooey bear, you can pee now. It’s okay,” she smiled, rubbing his upper thigh in a gesture which once would have been arousing but now felt like a complete sickening breach of privacy.

John forced his muscles closed but his bladder was too full, and the first stream of urine trickled into the bottle, making so much noise that it seemed deafening in the small, stifling room. Rosemarie hummed along to a song as she held the bottle steady, catching John’s pee until it trickled to a stop.

“ Good. Okay. I’ll get rid of this and then we can talk about wedding favours!” she said excitedly.

“ Can’t wait,” John frowned, testing his bonds once more.

* * *

“ She’s clever,” Sherlock admitted begrudgingly after looking over the information provided by Mycroft’s minions. They were on the third day of John’s disappearance and nobody could find a trace of the woman. “Never posts from one place… uses other computers and internet ports.”

“ She’ll slip up, we’ll find something,” Mycroft replied, his body language closed and tight. “Do you need anything?”

“ YES! I NEED JOHN!” Sherlock shouted, throwing the papers to the floor of the office and walking towards Mycroft menacingly. He stopped when Mycroft held up a hand to the half a dozen armed guards who took a step forward, hidden silenced guns obvious by their posture.

“ I understand that,” Mycroft said, his voice even and steady. “What I meant was a drink, or food?”

“ How can I eat at a time like this?” Sherlock scoffed. “Just because you dream of cake every moment doesn’t mean we all do.”

“ Sherlock” Mycroft said softly, “You haven't eaten for three days. You haven't slept for more than twenty minutes at a time. You're going to drive yourself to the brink and when John comes back, he's going to be utterly furious with the pair of us”

The detective stilled, realising once more that his brother was right (damn he hated that). He walked to the buffet cart which had been left by one of the many staffmembers of his brother and picked up a sandwich at random, thrusting the entire snack into his face inelegantly and chewing only enough to be palatable as he swallowed it. “There. Happy?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes before turning back to the computer where one minion sat typing away, using every illegal database he could in order to find the woman known as Rosemarie.

* * *

John lay in the same position in his bed, his shoulder screaming in agony from lack of movement as Rosemarie sat with her legs folded on the other side, the huge wedding folder in her lap as she scribbled and made notes, occasionally asking John for his opinions which he faked uncaringly.

“ Okay, so, your guests. Who would you like to invite?” she asked, tilting her head and leaning in to brush off a piece of imaginary lint from John's upper thigh.

“ You first,” John smiled, trying to coax information from her. “Who’s on your side? Just so I know numbers.”

“ Oh,” Rosemarie smiled warmly, her plan to have John to herself finally working. “Well, my mother and father, obviously.”

“ Obviously,” John smiled, nodding for her to continue.

“ And my sister Angela and her husband Thomas.” She ticked off the list. “And my nanna Marcy.”

“ I don’t have any family,” John said sadly. “Well, none that I'd want to invite to the biggest and most happy day of my life. ” He used his feet to gently stroke against her leg softly, knowing he still couldn't escape, he decided to play the only card he had left. Lie and cheat his way out.

Rosemarie’s breathing hitched at the comment and she looked down at John with teary eyes. “Do you mean that?”

“ Of course,” John lied, adding an extra convincing wink. “I’m not really popular so not many people could come.”

“ That’s a shame,” Rosemarie sighed. “You would look so handsome in your suit.”

“ Hmm,” John replied with a half shrug. “Although it would be interesting to invite Sherlock.”

Rosemarie’s eyes narrowed, her posture becoming angry as she glared at John. “Why would you say that? Why would you invite  _ HIM  _ to our wedding?!”

John reacted quickly, remembering the crime scene where the newly wed husband and wife were killed and the impressions he had made.

“ Think about it,” he whispered softly. “Imagine his face when he sees you walking down the aisle to meet me. I'd be smiling and happy, watching my beautiful, sexy and intelligent fiancée walk down to marry me and he’d have to watch,” John acted, his stomach in knots at the thought of Sherlock and how much he missed him.

The woman’s eyes lit up, a vulgar, jealous excitement mirrored in them as she looked at John. “Yes. Okay. Let’s do that.”

“ Please, could you let me out?” John fluttered his eyelashes, his toes teasing further up her inner thigh until he was only inches away from her mound.“I know we shouldn’t… not before we’re married but… I want you… You just… you look so desirable sitting there, planning our wedding.”

Rosemarie’s face flushed and she blinked rapidly before lowering her head, looking up at John through dark eyelashes. “But no funny business?”

“ Only sexy funny business,” John smiled, winking and running his tongue across his lips wantonly with a giggle.

“ Oh John,” Rosemarie sighed, her hand on her heaving and red flushed chest. “Okay.”

John watched, his body primed as Rosemarie came to his weak side and unlocked his hand from the cuff which kept him there. John winced, lifting it and squeezing his fist a few times, getting the blood flow back into the sore muscles before waiting as Rosemarie moved to the other side, she repeated the act before moving to straddle John, her weight heavy on John's flaccid cock, leaning down for a kiss.

“ Oh, my beautiful doctor,” she moaned, closing her eyes and tilting her head to allow John to fit his nose alongside hers.

She was totally surprised when John grabbed her arms and pulled them both from the bed onto the floor, the duvet still wrapped around his legs as he held her tightly and grabbed the cuffs which had been used to secure him. He clasped them around her wrists and sat up, panting with the effort and adrenaline as she kicked her legs and swore inventively at him.

“ You lied to me!” she screeched, her feet banging on the wood of the floor causing small vibrations to travel through the entire room.

“ Of course I did, you mad bastard,” John laughed, he didn't want to sound cruel but he was almost giddy with happiness at finally being out of the cuffs. “I love Sherlock, and only Sherlock.”

“ He can’t love you. He won’t. Not like I could,” Rosemarie insisted angrily, flailing on the floor like a dying fish. “He hasn’t even found you. I bet he hasn’t looked!”

“ Shut up,” John spat, rummaging through the belongings she had taken from him a few days before. He pushed the battery back into place and fired up the mobile, his heart thudding when the home screen was displayed allowing him to put his thumb over the ‘Call Sherlock’ button.

His call was answered on the first ring by a frantic sounding Sherlock.

“ What have you done to him? Where is he? I’ll give you anything, just please give him back.”

“ Sherlock,” John whispered, emotionally drained at finally hearing the sound of his lover's voice. “It’s me.”

“ John?” the detective choked, sounding equally affected. “John are you okay? Where are you? Are you safe?”

“ Yeah,” he laughed, relief flooding through him. “Yeah I'm fine. She’s in cuffs. I managed to escape but I need someone to come and get me… I don’t know where I am though. I was unconscious when she brought me… How did she get me here?” He frowned, looking at Rosemarie who was softly weeping into the crease of her elbow.

“ That’s fine. We’re getting your location now,” Sherlock insisted, his voice barking orders at someone who sounded suspiciously like Mycroft. “Hurry up! You’re the bloody highest git in the land and you can’t even track a phone?! Do you have Battenburg cake clogging your braincells?”

“ Sherlock,” John laughed, falling down to sit in a chair as he rubbed his face. “Fucking hell, I’ve missed you so much.”

Sherlock choked back a sob. “I’ve missed you too. So much. It’s been intolerable without you. Gavin was dreadful. He...He told me that I'd have to work with Anderson full time if I didn't stop being a twat… those were his exact words!”

“ Greg,” John giggled, relief flooding his veins that Sherlock truly had been looking for him and hadn't just spoken to thin air like he sometimes did when he walked the mind palace. Sometimes John wasn't sure that Sherlock knew when he was actually in the house. “I’ll warn you now though, I’m pretty grim. Haven’t showered for a few days or brushed my teeth. I’ve been pissing in a milk bottle.”

Sherlock was silent at the other end of the line before speaking. “You’ll be better when we get home. I’ll look after you.”

John smiled; he couldn’t wait to run a hand through Sherlock’s curls and tell him how much he adored him.

“ We have the location,” John heard Mycroft say in the background followed by the immediate pattering of numerous sets of feet running.

“ John. We’re coming to get you,” Sherlock said, high pitched and almost franticly breathless as he ran. “Stay put.”

“ Not going anywhere,” John insisted, about to put down the phone. “See you soon.”

“ John?!” Sherlock shouted, making John put the phone back to his ear.

“ Yeah?”

“ I… well… You are my everything.”

John gasped, his eyes watering as he bit his lip. “You are my everything too.”

The call was disconnected from Sherlock’s end, and John stared at the blank screen for a moment before rubbing his eyes and reaching for a bottle of water which had been left on the sideboard. His throat felt parched and dry, like the hottest days in the hellhole desert during his deployment. He took a deep swig and groaned, pouring some over his head and gasping at the cool chill against his skin.

“ How do you do that?” Rosemarie asked in a timid voice watching John's movements carefully.

“ Do what?” John spat in return, taking another large glug of the refreshing water.

“ Make him love you, make him say those things…” she whispered, looking up tearfully at John. “How do you make people love you?”

“ You can’t just force people to love you,” John replied, looking down sympathetically at his captor. He helped her to sit, her hands still cuffed behind her back and offered her a drink of water which she drank before smiling in thanks. “Love just happens.”

“ Not for me,” Rosemarie replied. “My… My daddy always wanted something in return for his love,” she trailed off. “He used to like hitting...and burning...and...and touching.”

John winced; he didn’t want to feel sorry for this woman who had drugged and kidnapped him but his empathy and doctors concern was getting the better of him.

“ And Jonathan…” she said, watching as John listened intently, “he said he loved me… then he married that whore.”

“ The victims,” John muttered.

“ NO!” she shouted, high pitch and startlingly venomous. “They’re not the victims. I am! He lied. He lied and lied and lied and told me he loved me and that he would marry me and we’d have babies! He told me!”

“ Okay, okay,” John soothed, his hands upheld. “Relax.”

“ So I went there, to talk. To ask why,” she continued, almost looking past John and into her memory. “And he looked at me like he didn't know me, told me to leave. She came out and asked me who I was. She mocked me, with her eyes, she gestured to me… and the ring… the ring sparkled into my eyes like a laser.”

“ What happened?” John asked, he wasn't sure whether she would confess at the station but he could at least give Greg some details when he made his statement.

“ I hit them. I hit them and hit them and hit them,” Rosemarie screamed, tears rolling down her face, “again and again and again until their stupid smug faces were gone. Then I took her ring… it should have been mine anyway and I left.”

John’s head twisted as the front door exploded in shards of wood followed by a whoosh of swirling dark fabric and darker curls. “John?!”

“ Sherlock,” John laughed, getting up and throwing himself towards his lover. Sherlock grabbed John tightly, wrapping his arms around the smaller man and burying his nose into his partners grimy hair and neck. “I missed you so much,” Sherlock whispered, pulling away to kiss John’s nose and his forehead. “Are you ok? Your shoulder? And the drugs… what did she give you? Any side effects? Let me see your eyes?”

“ Sherlock,” John smiled warmly, chuckling high pitched and giddy, taking Sherlock’s hands in his and kissing them. “I’m fine. I’m okay.”

“ You,” Sherlock sneered at the woman on the floor. “You sad, pathetic…”

“ No!” John shouted, pointing at Sherlock. “No. None of that.”

“ But… John…” Sherlock gasped.”After all she's done… She… She kept you captive. She drugged you… She touched your penis”

“ I know” John nodded, stroking Sherlock's cheek softly “but that isn't going to help anyone now. We're safe and it's all going to be okay.”

John turned, looking at Rosemarie who was watching the scene with sparkling, tear filled eyes. He knelt down awkwardly, hiding the grimace from his sore muscles and kissed her forehead. “Goodbye, Rosemarie.”

“ Her name isn’t Rosemarie,” Sherlock said, watching carefully with narrowed eyes. “It’s Emma. Emma Sharpe. She escaped from a secure unit three months ago. She was sent there as a teenager for burning down her house and killing her mother, father, sister and brother in law and their grandmother.”

“ No!” the newly named Emma shook her head. “I’m Rosemarie!”

“ No. Rosemarie is the name of the woman you killed in Camden shortly before you met Jonathan Smith on the number 34 bus,” Sherlock continued. “Who you then followed and stalked for weeks until breaking into his flat and murdering him and his wife for absolutely no reason except your delusions that you were in a relationship with him. He didn't even know you existed until that day.”

John looked at both the woman and then Sherlock; he got back to his feet and stood beside his lover as Lestrade and the Yard entered, taking the screaming, flailing and kicking woman away. Greg stopped, slapping a hand against John's shoulder and nodding his head in greetings and unsaid words that the doctor's statement could wait a few days. John nodded back, smiling at his friend before turning back to Sherlock and entwining their fingers.

“ I was so afraid,” Sherlock admitted quietly, looking around to ensure nobody could hear him. “I thought… God. I was terrified.”

“ It’s okay. I’m here now,” John whispered, kissing Sherlock chastely, uncaring of their surroundings or his unwashed aroma. “Let’s go home.”

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not sure when the next update will be. I'm really struggling with my muse lately but I shall try!

John’s mind had finally allowed itself to relax and he almost fell flat on his face as he entered Baker Street with Sherlock through shock and the trauma of yet another kidnapping. Sherlock caught him in the final moment and helped him back to his feet and into the living room where he knelt by John’s feet and pulled off his shoes and socks. John reached down and let his forehead rest against Sherlock’s, their breath mingling for a brief moment as they spent time just enjoying one another.

“ Shhh, it’s okay now,” Sherlock soothed, rubbing the heel of John’s frankly rather smelly feet without a care. “You’re home. You’re safe.”

John gave a pitiful half nod and relaxed into the sofa cushions, watching as Sherlock stretched himself to full height and walked through to the bathroom, turning on the hot water and opening and closing cupboards. John closed his eyes, resting his head on the back of the sofa as he indulged in the smell of home.

“ John?” Sherlock whispered, nudging him gently before stroking a thumb across John’s cheek, “wake up, your bath is ready.”

“ Hmm? Oh...right...bath yeah.” John nodded and shuffled forward on the sofa until he could stand, following Sherlock into the bathroom where a bath full of bubbles awaited.

“ I… I used my shampoo. I know you said you liked the smell and we didn’t have any real bubbles and…” Sherlock trailed off, coughing awkwardly and looking at John under his eyelashes nervously. “Is that okay?”

“ It’s perfect,” John nodded, kissing Sherlock’s cheek before stripping off his clothes. He moved his hands to unbutton his shirt and stilled, noticing for the first time the bruises around his wrists caused by his non-consensual bondage. “Sherlock…”

“ Shhh.” Sherlock immediately stepped forward, taking John’s hands in his own. “Just a bruise. Just a silly bruise. You’re a soldier, you’ve had worse. What did you say to me that time I scratched myself on barbed wire? I’ve had bigger wounds on my arse.” He grinned and rested his forehead against John’s. “It’ll fade.”

“ She…” John started, inhaling sharply and then looking away. “I had to lie… I had to tell her that I didn’t love you and… and…” he hiccupped a sob, “I never, ever want to have to say that again. Never.”

“ You won’t,” Sherlock promised, stroking the greasy strands of John’s hair out of his eyes. “Now, get in the bath and I’ll cook us some dinner...and you’re eating!” he finished with a grin.

John chuckled and rubbed at his leaking eyes with the ball of his hand, nodding his head as he finished stripping his clothes and climbed into the perfect temperature water.

Sherlock had just made it into the kitchen when John called him back in; the detective smiled and walked back rapidly, an upturned eyebrow as he looked at his lover. “I’m not at your beck-and-call you know!”

John smirked, “I know but it’s nice seeing you doing all the running for once,” he grinned. “But honestly… would you like to… share my bath?”

“ I was going to cook,” Sherlock huffed.

“ I know but I think I need cuddles before I need food. It’s more of an imperative you see,” John nodded seriously, his overwhelming feelings of neediness hidden behind the playful veneer.

“ Okay,” Sherlock nodded. “But give me ten minutes to get something fixed up.”

John relaxed back into the water, using his feet to splash the bubbles around before he heard Sherlock return. John’s eyebrows lifted when he noticed the tray Sherlock was carrying featured a few slices of toast cut into soldiers and smeared in jam, and a bowl of dry cheerios.

“ Your cooking skills are impeccable,” John teased.

“ Shut up,” Sherlock pouted. “It seems we don’t have anything in, someone was silly enough to get himself kidnapped whilst grocery shopping,” he smiled, worrying that perhaps he went too far. His heart fluttered however when John let out a loud high pitched giggle.

“ We should do online shopping from now on,” the doctor suggested. “It’s probably safer.”

“ Hmm,” Sherlock agreed, placing the tray across the sink carefully as he pulled off his own clothes without hesitation. “Budge up,” he grumbled, sitting with his back to the taps with his legs resting across John’s thighs. “This bath wasn’t intended for two fully grown men...well...one fully grown man and one tiny person.”

“ Oh this is how it goes is it?” John laughed, splashing Sherlock. “You infiltrate my personal bathtime and then ridicule my height? Bad form, Holmes.”

Sherlock could feel his heart thrumming with happiness at having his blogger back after the terror of almost losing him. “You asked me to infiltrate it!”

“ Oh I love when you talk dirty,” John smirked, watching as Sherlock spluttered and blushed. “Sorry, okay so you need to feed me. What delights did you rustle up for me?”

“ Jam on only slightly mouldy bread… and cheerios,” Sherlock half shrugged, using his long arms to reach for the tray before placing it between them to rest on either side of the tub.

“ Michelin star cuisine,” John joked before opening his mouth. “I have wet hands.”

Sherlock reached for the first slice of toast, cautiously bringing it to John’s mouth to allow the older man to bite and chew it. “Mmmm. Surprisingly tasty after being spoon fed soup by a weird, deranged headcase.”

“It was m ade with love,” Sherlock smirked, digging his hands into the Cheerios and pushing them inelegantly into his mouth.

“ It’s the glamour in this romance that keeps me coming back,” John smirked, picking up a floating cereal O and flicking it back at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled, relaxing back slightly and then wincing when his back hit the taps. “Bloody things.”

John smiled; picking up a few bits of toast, he suggested to Sherlock to put the tray back on the sink before turning until his back was against John’s chest. Sherlock hesitated slightly, aware that John had never really felt his scarred back against anything but his fingers but soon pushed the thoughts aside as he twisted himself into the right position and lay his curls against John’s shoulder. “I’ve hijacked your bath”

“ Hmm,” John agreed, feeding one of the pieces of toast to Sherlock before taking a bite of his own.

“ Fanks,” Sherlock mumbled as he devoured the bread and jam before tilting his head. John smiled, kissing Sherlock on the forehead and leaving a slight mark of sticky jam.

Sherlock looking up, his eyes meeting John’s for a long lingering moment before he tentatively pressed his lips to John’s. Their kiss was tender and sweet, gentle yet completely passionate as they opened their mouths and began to deepen it, sweeping their tongues across one another.

“ John...” Sherlock whispered as he pulled away. “I don't mean this to sound callous or cruel….but you stink.”

John laughed, his nose wrinkling as he nodded in agreement. “How about I have a quick shower and then we go to bed? I bet you haven't slept at all.”

“ A bit,” Sherlock shrugged.

“ So, not at all then?” John replied, helping Sherlock up and out of the bath. His hands sliding along Sherlock's slippery buttocks as the detective winched himself out of the tub and wrapped a towel around his hips. The scars on his back shone in the light through the bathroom window, shimmering slightly and hypnotising John for a moment too long as Sherlock turned, blushing when he saw where John was staring.

“ Your shoulder looks better,” John mumbled, pulling the plug from the bath and standing up to start the shower. “I won't be long.”

Sherlock gave a single nod before walking out of the bathroom, the towel clutched in his hand to keep it up as he left John alone to bathe. The doctor turned on the water and groaned as heat spread across his head and over his tired body, soothing aching muscles and causing a shudder up John's spine. He cleaned himself quickly, ensuring that he was spotlessly clean before climbing out of the bath, combing his hair and brushing his teeth. He picked up the fluffy towel which Sherlock had left for him and walked still dripping into their shared bedroom, glancing at Sherlock who lay naked, pale and still damp, spread out on the bed like a Greek god.

“ You look… beautiful,” John whispered, blushing at his own sentimentality. He was quickly rewarded with a red tinged detective who held out his hands for John to join him on the bed.


	15. Chapter 15

John removed his towel, letting it drop to the floor before he moved to the side of the bed designated as his. He pulled back the cover and climbed in, thankful when Sherlock did the same as they turned on their sides and looked at one another.

“Hey,” John smiled, stroking his hand through Sherlock's curls.

“Hi,” Sherlock replied, closing his eyes as he felt John's hand against him. He had missed the little touches so much and found that he desperately craved John's affections once more.

The older man felt the same way and reached across, kissing his lover passionately with a kiss that took both their breaths away and caused them to gravitate closer to one another in the bed until their erections pressed together, and the only sound in the room was heavy breathing and the slick sounds of kissing. Sherlock ran his hands along John's side before kissing down his throat and jawline, sucking a dark mark into the pale skin of John's collarbone as he worked his way down to John's chest, pushing him to lay on his back as Sherlock gracefully threw a leg across John's hips, grinding down slightly and groaning at the feeling of John's stiffness against his arse. He circled his hips, moaning and running his hands across John's shoulders and chest, almost as though he were in a trance.

“Sherlock?” John asked carefully, hoping that Sherlock hadn't slipped into his mind palace.

“I'm cataloguing,” Sherlock mumbled, a coy smile on his lips. “I realised when you were gone that I didn't know what your biceps felt like under my fingertips so I intend on storing every inch of you away… just incase,” he trailed off, looking thoughtful as he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to John's lips. “Not that I will allow you to go anywhere.”

John reached up, holding Sherlock's cheeks in his hands as he kissed him passionately, listening to the wheezy exhale from the man above. Sherlock steadied himself, pressing both his hands onto John's chest as he shivered in arousal. His cock was leaking steadily, dripping precum against John's stomach with every throb, and John wasn't fairing much better.

Sherlock pulled away, kissing down John's chest and shuffling further down until he was looking directly at John's penis which seemed dramatically large from so close up. The detective steeled himself, taking a deep breath in before he tentatively licked up the hard shaft, tasting the musky precum which was already leaking in abundance.

“Oh god,” John growled, his back arching without thought. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled, he loved that he could make John make such delightful sounds, and so he focussed his genius mind on providing John with the greatest fellatio he had ever received. He ran his hands softly against the tops of John's thighs, feeling the sparse hairs tickle his palm as he rubbed and caressed the soft skin, his thumbs brushing ever closer to the throbbing cock between John's legs. John grabbed the bedding tightly, his body thrumming with nervous energy as he felt Sherlock giving gentle, kitten licks to his tip. He had just relaxed into the sensation, his eyes fluttering closed when Sherlock suddenly plunged his entire shaft into his mouth, sucking and swallowing around him until he pulled back with a wet gag and a grimace.

“Fuuuuck!” John cried, his eyes rolling back. “S-Sherlock, don't… fucking hell...”

“It looked much easier in pornography,” Sherlock sulked, his eyebrows drawn together as though he was attempting to solve a puzzle.

“Don't force yourself to take too much.” John moaned, his cock harder than it had ever been before.

Sherlock tutted, rolling his eyes as he shuffled further down the bed until John could only see the cerulean eyes and the mop of dark curls from between his legs.

“Round two,” Sherlock muttered, causing John to giggle loudly before it dissolved into a deep groan when Sherlock wrapped his lips around John's tip. He gripped the bedding tightly, his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to hold off his orgasm as Sherlock quickly discovered how John preferred to be sucked. He applied suction, using his hand on the bottom of the shaft which he couldn't reach yet whilst bobbing his head back and forth; combining these all with the occasional brush of John's testicles soon had the doctor wailing and moaning, his head thrashing side to side.

“Sherlock… Sherlock pull off I'm going to… Oh Christ...” John spluttered, looking down at Sherlock with enormous eyes. “I'm coming, Sherlock!”

Sherlock remained in place, his mouth wide open and John's slit resting on his tongue as he stroked and caressed the heated flesh until he felt it pulse and throb in his hand, growing harder as the first jet of come covered his tongue with an audible  _ thunk.  _ Sherlock groaned, his eyes growing wide as he increased the speed of his stroking, groaning wantonly as a second, third and fourth spurt erupted into his mouth and caused him to choke slightly as he swallowed it down and lapped at John's tip, cleaning away the remaining fat dribbles of ejaculate which trickled across his lower lip.

John felt exhausted, like his entire brain had been sucked through the end of his cock to be swallowed and absorbed by Sherlock. He gave a few heaving breaths before looking down, watching as Sherlock sucked perversely on his long fingers, tasting the remaining come.

“You need a better diet,” Sherlock commented, wiping his mouth roughly.

“You need to bring me more jam on toast and Cheerios then,” John giggled, his mind fuzzy from his orgasm as Sherlock shuffled up the bed and laid against John's chest.

“Was that satisfactory?” Sherlock asked timidly.

“It was perfect,” John whispered, kissing the top of Sherlock's head.

“Hmm, good,” Sherlock hummed, kissing John's chest tenderly. “John?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm rather erect and it aches. It would be a shame to let it go to waste as it's rather impressive,” Sherlock said, looking down at his own erection. “It hasn't been like that in a long while.”

“Then we better make the most of it,” John chuckled, wiggling from under Sherlock and kissing him tenderly. The two men snogged for a long while, allowing John to gather his wits whilst Sherlock buzzed with frantic energy beneath him. John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair gently.

“Sherlock, do you trust me?” John asked in a whisper.

Sherlock frowned, his eyebrows furrowed in the middle. “Of course I do.”

“Will you turn over?” John replied, nuzzling Sherlock's cheek. “I… I want to do something.”

“Must you?” Sherlock asked, his face suddenly serious and rather red. “I know I've gotten better at accepting my mutilations, but if we're to indulge in more sexual activity I don't want to ruin the moment.”

“Sherlock,” John sighed, “I would never do anything you're not comfortable with but I want to show you… I want to show you how much I want you.”

“But...” Sherlock trailed off. “If I say yes, but then change my mind would you stop?”

“Of course I would!” John gasped. “Just tell me and I'll stop. Immediately. You're in charge.”

Sherlock blew out a breath before tentatively turning onto his front, his arms gathering up John's pillow to rest upon as he bared himself for John intimately. John smiled at his lover's bravery and resilience as he pressed a kiss to the detective's shoulder and stroked a hand down his side.

The scars were a dusky pink, each bumping up from the pale, creamy skin of Sherlock's back in long strokes before meeting at a point. John straddled Sherlock's arse, his now almost completely flaccid cock resting in the crease of Sherlock's buttocks as he cautiously ran his fingers up and down Sherlock's spine. He traced his fingers across the pink wings before leaning forward and letting his tongue move across Sherlock's skin, tasting and licking away the sweat which gathered there. Sherlock's breathing hitched, his hips moved a tiny amount and he turned his head to look at John over his shoulder.

“Shhh, my love,” John smiled, kissing over the thicker cuts where the wings joined Sherlock's spine.

Sherlock stayed still, watching as John continued to lick across the damaged skin, soothing Sherlock's mind as though it were a comforting balm. He traced each rough cut, following the trail of the blade, shuffling himself backwards until his lips let the two dimples either side of Sherlock's coccyx.

John looked up, checking on Sherlock who was still watching him, his eyes glassy but awake and aware of John's every movement; the older man smiled reassuringly before rubbing his hands across Sherlock's buttocks and pressing a soft kiss on each plump cheek. He used his thumbs to spread Sherlock softly, looking down at the pale pink ring which twitched deliciously.

“John?” Sherlock asked nervously, his eyes following John's movements.

“I love you,” John smiled in reply, his breath ghosting across Sherlock's hole before he lowered his face and tenderly began to lap at the muscles of Sherlock's arsehole.

Sherlock squirmed, unsure whether he wanted to pull away or push further back onto John's face and the delightful tickling sensation of John's tongue stroking and licking at his rim. Sherlock pushed his face into the pillow of his arms and groaned, deep and desperate as he raised his hips and pressed himself back onto John's tongue. John meanwhile was in heaven; he licked around the rim of Sherlock's hole, occasionally giving a small suck to the tight muscle before attempting to push his tongue inside. His hands stroked across Sherlock's buttocks, hoping that the movements calmed the detective who was practically wailing and cursing in various languages which John couldn't name.

Moving his left hand from Sherlock's arse, he lifted Sherlock's bollocks away from his body, stroking them gently as he let his tongue slip down to Sherlock's perineum, following the seam of skin between the two spots as his hands stroked and caressed the tight sack.

“John,” Sherlock whined, looking over his shoulder with wide, glassy eyes. “John...John...”

“It's okay, it's alright,” John soothed, sliding his hand into the crease of Sherlock's buttocks and stroking the pad of his thumb over and around the puckered rim. The first knuckle slipped inside, causing Sherlock to groan and drop his head back down, seemingly unable to keep his head supported whilst undergoing such exquisite agony. Sherlock rolled his hips, groaning as more of John's thumb slipped inside him and pushed against a spot which had him seeing stars. His head flicked up, curls flying wildly and his eyes blazing as he looked at John. “What...What was that?”

“Nice, eh?” John smirked. “Prostate.”

“Do it again… more… harder,” Sherlock insisted, wiggling his bum and bucking back in a desperate attempt to get more of John inside him.

“Alright, impatient git,” John grumbled, placing a soft and loving bite against Sherlock's buttock. “It can be intense.”

“Don't care,” Sherlock replied, widening his stance and looking down with a touch of awe at his leaking cock which dribbled thick precum onto his bedding into a puddle.

John smiled, kissing Sherlock's bum again as he began stroking Sherlock's prostate, starting from the left side and moving inwards, before swapping to the right and watching enraptured as Sherlock stiffened and practically screamed as his cock began to stream pre-ejaculate in thick, gooey blobs.

John removed the hand keeping Sherlock's cheeks open and wrapped it around Sherlock's prick, stroking it softly. He focussed on the head, bringing the tight foreskin over the red-tipped shaft again and again, marvelling at the amount of precum which flowed over his hand. He smeared it across the tight skin of Sherlock's prick as he combined prostate stimulation with tugs on Sherlock's cock.

“John… John… I'm… I think I'm… Oh...” Sherlock wailed, his head thrown back before suddenly falling forward. “John… John!”

“I know,” John whispered breathlessly, knowing it was only mere seconds until Sherlock orgasmed spectacularly.

Sherlock shuddered, his body twitching and trembling as he stiffened with a silent scream as his cock throbbed before coming, spurting streams of hot come across the bed and John's hand which remained moving, almost as if on autopilot as he stroked Sherlock through his orgasm. The detective was grunting, panting as more and more strands of come splattered against the bed leaving him weak legged and speechless.

John removed his finger from Sherlock's arse and sat back on his heels. He stroked Sherlock's back and carefully took his hand from his lover's prick, wiping the fluid on his leg as he gently and sweetly shushed Sherlock's whimpers. John helped Sherlock onto his side, ignoring the large mess in the middle of the mattress as John wrapped himself around Sherlock's back and stroked him softly, nuzzling into the back of Sherlock's hair, smelling the sweat which had formed at his hairline. John hummed sweetly, kissing Sherlock's scarred shoulder as the detective finally came back to himself, his hard-drive brain clicking back online after the spectacular orgasm he had been given.

John nuzzled the back of Sherlock's neck and sighed happily. Stroking through Sherlock's hair, his breathing began to go back to normal, and the shudders which racked his body ceased and allowed him to get closer to his lover.

“That was amazing,” John groaned, kissing Sherlock's ear gently.

“Hmm,” Sherlock agreed sleepily. “But now I have to change the sheets and shower again.”

“I apologise,” John laughed.

“Honestly. You're back one day and the flat is a mess. You're a disgrace, John Hamish Watson,” Sherlock replied seriously, but with a grin cracking his face.

“I know, but you wouldn't have it any other way.” John ran his nose along Sherlock's spine.

  
“You're right. I wouldn't.” Sherlock sighed, before pulling away from John with a grimace. He stood up and looked at his come covered skin with a touch of distaste before turning towards the bathroom. “And stop looking at my bum!”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking that there will be a final chapter after this one... but as I explained before, my muse is being a complete bitch!

_**Six Months Later;** _

John hovered nervously outside the changing room and occasionally bit his lip as he waited for Sherlock to emerge. The detective had been in there for almost fifteen minutes and John was beginning to get anxious that Sherlock had changed his mind.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to do this. It’s fine,” John soothed through the thin wood of the door. “Just… let me in. Or come out. I’m not bothered either way.”

There was a moment of stillness before the door was cracked open and Sherlock took a step out into the main room with his head held high. His cheeks were slightly flushed, his curls immaculately groomed as normal.

“Okay?” John asked tentatively. “Because we can just go home…”

“No, John,” Sherlock huffed. “This was my idea. I… I still want to do it. I think I just need a moment to compose myself.”

John nodded once and took a step back, allowing Sherlock the space to breathe and think. The detective took a few controlled breaths before taking off at a quick pace, forcing John to half jog beside him as they entered the studio. Sherlock’s silk dressing gown wrapped around his legs and was pulled tight around his body as he made his way to the crescent of easels set around a stool in the middle of the space.

“Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” a man greeted both men with a gracious smile and a friendly handshake. “We appreciate you standing for us.”

“Well… It’s more Sherlock really. I’m just going to be here,” John nodded in the corner, “quietly watching to make sure he’s okay.”

Sherlock tutted and rolled his eyes. “I’ve told you, I’ll be perfectly fine.”

John gave a half-hearted shrug before walking to the given corner and sitting in the chair which had been thoughtfully provided for him. He watched as Sherlock took a deep breath before turning and strolling to the stool situated in the middle. The detective looked around the room at the various faces of the artists standing by the easels chatting to one another and sharpening their utensils.

Sherlock slid the dressing gown from his shoulders and exhaled before sitting on the floor, turning his body to ensure that his front was pointed at John whereas his back was fully exposed to the group of artists who all raised their eyebrows before moving into position and beginning their sketches.

The brunet pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them protectively, resting his head on his kneecaps as he focussed his entire attention on John who smiled reassuringly at his lover. Sherlock’s breathing had steadied to a regular pattern as he calmed himself despite sitting naked in a room full of strangers, exposing his most sensitive secret to someone other than John for the first time.

* * *

The idea had occurred to Sherlock relatively quickly after his and John’s first passionate love-making session. The absolute adoration which John had given Sherlock, ensuring he felt special and wanted had made Sherlock’s mind realise that he had nothing to be ashamed of when it came to his scars. Sherlock had put down his cereal bowl and immediately walked to John, pressing him against the wall and kissing him passionately and desperately, breathing in the surprised hitch of breath from John’s mouth.

“Sherlock?” John gasped, moving a hand to cup against his lover’s pointed hip.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispered, his eyes meeting John’s before he ran a large hand through the blond strands.

John frowned but reached up to kiss the corner of Sherlock’s lips sweetly. “And I love you, too.”

“But… You love me, completely. Without a care about how awful I can be, or how terrible I am to other people or my vile scars,” Sherlock whispered, tilting John’s chin up to ensure they maintained eye contact.

“What? Of course I do,” John frowned, the wrinkle appearing above his brow as he squeezed Sherlock tighter. “What is this about?”

“You love me, scars and all,” Sherlock grinned, pressing his forehead against John and laughing softly, exhaling air over John’s face. “You love me.”

“Of course, you daft arse,” John laughed.

Sherlock nuzzled into John’s cheek before kissing along his jawline and down to his neck and throat. “Would you love me if I only had one arm?”

John tilted his head to allow Sherlock better access to his skin. “Yes… but please don’t cut it off in the name of scientific experimentation.”

“What if I had no hair?” Sherlock smirked, moving down to sniff and rub his face into the skin which was showing through the V in John’s dressing gown. Sherlock inhaled deeply at the smell of John’s body and morning sweat collected in the blond curls as he kissed a path down to the other man’s navel.

“Y-Yes,” John stuttered. “Although I'd miss doing this,” he ran his fingers through Sherlock’s bed-flat curls.

Sherlock chuckled but dropped to his knees and opened the belt keeping John’s gown closed, the fabric parting and allowing Sherlock access to the entire front of John’s body, including the now hard prick which bobbed at Sherlock’s face.

“Will you…” Sherlock started only to be stopped by John who moved his fingers from Sherlock’s hair down to his lips to cover them.

“I would love you regardless. No matter what you did, no matter how you look. There isn’t a single thing that you could do which would stop me loving you… You prick.” John smiled warmly before running a thumb across Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, John.” Sherlock nodded, a soft blush burgeoning across his cheeks. He looked up at John, licking his lips before moving forward and pressing a soft and chaste kiss to the tip of John’s cock. 

John kept himself still as Sherlock licked, sucked and lapped at his cock before bending forward and taking more into his throat. He had improved since the first time and could now take the majority of John into his mouth without retching. He sucked, hard at first then trailing to slower and more leisurely strokes before picking up the pace once more, his hand moving to cup and fondle John’s bollocks as he bobbed his head, over and over until John called out a rapid warning that he was close.

Sherlock continued, finally flicking his eyes up to meet John’s with a look of utter debauched bliss which sent John over the edge with a snarl. John bucked his hips, tangling his fingers into Sherlock’s hair as he came into the detective’s mouth in long, shuddering spurts which were ripped from him almost painfully.

Sherlock licked his lips, tasting the final remnants of John’s essence on his tongue before he stood gracefully and kissed the corner of John’s mouth.

“I was thinking…” Sherlock started, looking over at John’s slightly glazed expression. “Are you quite alright?”

“Wha…” John groaned before swallowing and wiping the slight trail of drool which had escaped his lips. “Yeah… yeah I'm fine.”

“You looked a bit...ridiculous, ” Sherlock admitted with an upturned eyebrow, “standing there with the misty eyed look of a madman with an erection.”

“You just…” John cleared his throat. “Give a man a second to recover after a bloody fantastic orgasm… that was spectacular.”

Sherlock flushed and ducked his head slightly before shrugging one shoulder. “So, anyway. Whilst you were busy trying to locate your solitary braincell, I was thinking that maybe I should… Well… I might attend an art class.”

John nodded and drew his gown back closed, tying the belt tightly as he realised they were still standing in their kitchen with Mrs Hudson directly below them. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “I was rather thinking that perhaps I would pose for a group. Show… Show my scars. A way of showing that I'm not ashamed of them.”

John bit his lower lip and looked across at Sherlock, entwining their fingers together and squeezing softly. “If you think it would help.”

“I do,” Sherlock insisted. “However, I may be hesitant so would you… come with me?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” John reassured his lover with a kiss. “Now come and eat your breakfast. A man can’t live on cigarettes and semen alone.”

“What a shame that is,” Sherlock scoffed, following John.

 

* * *

Sherlock tilted his head, listening to the familiar scratch of pencils and charcoal against thick paper. He was fairly confident that he could deduce the papers origin from sound alone but he didn’t think it would interest anyone in the room and by interrupting the artists, then the session would take longer.

He was beginning to feel exposed, almost as though the people in the class would be able to guess what happened to him and the way he was treated during his time away. He focussed on John, sweet dependable John who made his life change from one long monotonous routine into something special. 

After a short time, the group had finished their sketches and were signalled to stop by the leader of the group who nodded at Sherlock that he could redress and stand up. The detective stood on shaky, half asleep legs and pulled on his dressing gown before reaching for John’s hand. The two men embraced for a long moment as John checked Sherlock was okay.

The couple began walking behind the easels, looking at the pictures which had been sketched. Most were crude line drawings, roughly executed but thorough with detail which momentarily took Sherlock’s breath away. It was at the end of the curve of easels that Sherlock stilled, his feet planted on the ground almost as though stuck in cement.

The picture was detailed, long thick lines were merged with smaller ones to bring out the roughness of Sherlock’s scarred wings. Sherlock bit his lip and looked over at his slumped form on the paper; he couldn’t deny that from the outside, there was a touch of beauty in the way it looked from a casual outsider.

“That’s amazing,” Sherlock heard John say from his side and rapidly snapped out of his mind palace.

“It is.” Sherlock nodded. “I would like to buy it.”

“Really?” John asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Really,” Sherlock insisted, looking at the woman who had drawn the picture. “I can give you £100… once I’m wearing pants.”

The woman looked stunned and nodded rapidly, blushing pink across her cheeks and ears as John pulled Sherlock around to look at him. The doctor placed a hand across Sherlock’s cheekbone and met his eyes with a burning loving look. “You’re sure?”

“It’s… detailed,” Sherlock stuttered, frowning and gesturing with his free hand. “I mean… I can see… I can see the beauty in it.”

“You can?” John asked, tilting his head before kissing Sherlock softly. “Then we’ll have it.”

“We’ll frame it,” Sherlock smiled, returning the kiss, “above the mantle.”

“Near the skull,” John added, and chuckled as he added a second kiss.

The men pressed their foreheads together gently and giggled, neither aware of the woman who had taken to her easel once more and was rapidly drawing. Sherlock kissed John’s head before pulling away and breaking their embrace. “I need to get dressed.”

“Go on then,” John grinned, slapping Sherlock’s bum and making it wobble.

Sherlock pouted but took off towards the changing room where his clothing waited, leaving John alone with the artist who cautiously tapped John on the shoulder. “I hope it wasn’t presumptuous…”

“What?” John asked, turning to look at her with a smile.

“I sketched this quickly… It’s not very good but… I saw you there, together, and I don’t think I've ever seen love like that, ” she admitted with another blush as she handed over the page of paper where she had drawn the outline of John and Sherlock resting their foreheads against one another. Their eyes were closed in quiet contemplation and both men looked utterly peaceful in one another's company.

“This is amazing,” John gasped, looking over at the woman. “Thank you so much.”

John stared at the picture once more until Sherlock strode over to them and took the picture from John’s hands. He looked at it before looking at John and reaching for his wallet, from the leather he took out four fifty pound notes and handed them to the artist. “Thank you.”

“M-Mr Holmes that’s too much,” the girl gasped. “I couldn’t...”

“You can,” Sherlock smiled before kissing John. “I insist.”

John returned the kiss and entwined his fingers into his lover’s, stroking his thumb across Sherlock’s skin gently as he looked up and whispered “Let’s go home”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I'll paint you wings, and I'll set you free.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6564340) by [Shiro3018](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiro3018/pseuds/Shiro3018)




End file.
